


With The Parents of My Enemy

by CarrieMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 90's Music, 90's pop culture, A little PTSD, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Australia, Christmas with the Wilkins, Dancing, Depression, Determined Hermione, Domestic Fluff, Draco Malfoy is now named Tom Felton, Draco plays guitar, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings Realization, Flirty Draco, Grey Sweatpants, Hamlet the border collie, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hermione gets a tattoo, Hermione's birthday, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Inter-House Unity, Hurt/Comfort, Idiot Draco Malfoy, Idiots in Love, Loss of Virginity, Marijuana, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Movie Night, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Parks & Forbes, Party Like It's 1999, Pining Draco Malfoy, Recreational Drug Use, Redemption Draco, Self-Loathing, Songfic, Spaghetti dinner, Star Trek References, Star Wars References, Tattoos, Tom Felton songs, Virgin Hermione Granger, awkward Hermione, beanie babies - Freeform, befriending the parents, but this is not a Tom Felton fic, crescent moon border collie, draco plays piano, exiled, from riches to rags, gonna have a little bit of everything without it being too much, her parents ship it, humbled Draco, it's just a joke, learning how to live, post-wizarding war, sensory lesson, sheepherding, snooping through diaries, some Ron bashing I couldn't help it, supportive parents, talking about the war, the "Wilkins" like naming things after Shakespearean characters, the best damn apology you'll ever read, the year 1999, trope hodgepodge, venomous snakes, wizengamot ruling, writing a book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 125,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrieMaxwell/pseuds/CarrieMaxwell
Summary: He's been exiled from the Wizarding World, the Wizengamot's cruel way of giving him the second chance that Hermione Granger insisted he receive for his crucial role that led to their victory. But she didn't ask for this.Just up and gone, without fanfare and barely a parting word with his mother. Plopped in the middle of goddamn nowhere and expected to live as a muggle. With no magic, a new identity, and no idea how to go about it, he's on his own.She's returning to school for an 8th year, being Head Girl and working on inter-house unity with fellow returning Slytherins as Harry & Ron dive right into Auror training and continue the hunt for Death Eaters. The following school year is unlike any that they've ever had before. All the while she researches the means to undo the Obliviation without success.Following the advice of Snape's portrait, she goes to see Narcissa Malfoy, wondering what she will learn.He gets some unexpected help from a kind couple after losing everything in rapid succession.They give him a place to stay, a job, and teach him their muggle ways.And their last name is Wilkins.
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Monica Wilkins/Wendell Wilkins
Comments: 375
Kudos: 362





	1. Exiled To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Official playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7lNEJHrV75TPJUi3ZSlaUd

<>So there I was, unceremoniously plopped in Salazar-forsaken Australia of all English speaking countries, about as far away as you could get from Great Britain without leaving the planet in general-and I’m sure that option was considered-with nothing but the tacky Muggle clothing on my back, a rucksack containing a few more, and a pitiful purse of Muggle money that I had no idea how to use.

But I wasn’t in Azkaban. So there was that.

But I wasn’t sure if this was much better.

With how bloody hot it was, I was certain I was closer to Hell.

The consultant at the Australian branch of the Ministry looked at me with an indignant sniff as they handed me papers marking my new identity, living quarters, potential place of employment, and a list of rules I was to adhere to as not only a citizen of this blasted country but also as a wizard enduring the assumed lifestyle of a muggle from now on.  
It was a punishment befitting-if a little too generous-for my crimes and actions but you wouldn’t be hearing a complaint from me. Those days were long over. I’d take every grain of salt thrown at me in my path to redemption-if I ever achieved it. I nodded along, said yes like a good lad, hung my head as if I was being scolded by Professor McGonagall, and shuffled my feet out of the building and into the blistering sun.

I was on my own. No one was going to hold my hand and walk me through this any further than this introduction to my new Hell and the rules I was to abide by and expected to fall in line and not come crawling back under any circumstances.

Draco Lucius Malfoy was as good as dead and I would not receive aid from the wizarding community.

I was still trying to familiarize myself with the name they gave me, the plastic card with a terrible picture of myself listing my personal information-what they called an Identification card, ID for short-along with other important documentation that would “prove” I was who I was now claiming to be and held the map in my hands, determined at least to not be pathetic enough to get lost with a map.

But I was.

And I was foolish with my new money, not understanding the numerical values and limited amount of them.

I was naturally, terrible at the job I was first provided and sacked in record time.

Never having to clean up after myself before, I soon found myself being buried alive in rubbish from the takeaway I had figured out how to order, and had complaints against me in the flat complex. Apparently the idea of someone who had once been wealthy enough to be considered royalty was now living in squalor under an assumed identity was laughable at best and pitiful at most, but with no employment I soon found myself booted out without remorse.

Fuck.

At least in Azkaban I would be provided a place to sleep!

And to top it all off, I ended up getting robbed while drinking away my sorrows at the local pub and now literally had nothing to survive on.

So that’s how they found me, slumped against the wall of a building, sunburnt and dehydrated, starving and reduced to panhandling for just enough to make it through the day. It was a slow death, but I figured that was the plan all along. I would bet there was a pool in the office for how long I’d last before I either died or went mental. A Wiltshire Brit of pale complexion and a scary looking tattoo on his arm would be hard to miss in the obituary section of the newspapers.

Death first.

Insanity seemed like a reprieve.

But I was near delirium anyways when the couple ushered me into their vehicle and held a water bottle to my parched lips. They could’ve told me they were going to harvest my organs and I would’ve willingly agreed, just for that delicious cool liquid soothing my parched throat and being smeared across my blazing hot forehead.

When I woke with clarity I found myself in a bed, in an unfamiliar room, wearing unfamiliar men’s pajamas and with an unfamiliar woman touching my face. I flinched naturally but it was her eyes that caught me in mid-flight-or-fight and calmed me down. Kind eyes that I could’ve sworn I’d seen before, but in someone much younger.

“Wendell, he’s awake!” she called happily, as if there had been a chance of that not happening.

Considering I wasn’t tied to the four corners and that the woman had called for a male companion, I could safely bet that I wasn’t held being held against my will or going to be seduced-ha, as if. Where’d that thought even come from? Maybe I was still delirious.

No matter, the woman still offered me more water with such motherly mannerism that for the briefest of instances I was tempted to add Mum after thanking her for it. The man named Wendell arrived, looking just as soft and concerned as the woman I perceived to be his wife. They wore wedding bands.

“Ah good to see you’ve pulled through lad. Had us in a fright that first day.”

“First day?” I sputter incredulously. These people picked up a literal stranger and took care of them for well over a day? Something I suspect from bleeding heart Gryffindors.  
“How long have I been here?”

“That’d be about two and a half now. You’ve been in and out with fever so you probably don’t recall. Helped you to the loo once or twice, which is ‘bout all you had the energy for.”

Oh how embarrassing. I could be mercifully dead by now but now I have just another tally on the list of the ways I’ve inconvenienced others with my mere existence.

“Don’t look so glum, you’d have perished if we hadn’t needed to refuel on petrol and drinks. I’d say you’re not from around these parts? English, like us.”

I’m not really supposed to say, but if they’ve already deduced my accent with the few words I’ve spoken and have saved my worthless life, I suppose there’s no harm in being forthright.

“Got ‘bout as far as one can get from the homeland eh?” he chuckled. “Traded the English deluge for Australian drought. Never drank so much water in all my life til coming here. Rookie mistake every first time tourist makes. You’ll get the hang of it, along with the tan.”

“Oh, I’m not a tourist…I’ve relocated here.” I mumble dumbly. “And I’ve had the worst luck since day one. You didn’t have to help me; all you’ve done is delay the inevitable.”

“Don’t be daft. What kind of people could we call ourselves if we’d simply walked on by without the least bit of assistance?” the woman admonishing in an eerily similar way. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that self-righteous tone before. “It’s the least of which we could do. Now I’m sure you’re in need of the facilities. Wendell’s going to lead you there should need help on your feet.”

“Oh that’s not-” I try to argue but I’m honestly in no condition for the impressive woman who merely shoots me and entirely Granger-esque scathing look that puts my protest into its grave. And when I do try to get on my feet I’m hit with a strong wave of vertigo and nausea. Wendell takes my arm and I do not begrudge it one bit.

The kind couple invites me into their dining room for tea-English style-and even though I’m a sunburnt mess wearing a stranger’s sleepwear I feel oddly at home with their generosity. I haven’t received this much kindness since my trial, and even that was rife with tension and guilt.

“Do tell us about yourself, I’m Monica by the way.” The woman pleasantly introduces herself with a gentile handshake across her table before pouring tea and adding in milk until I signal her to stop. I plop in three sugars and stir, breathing in the aroma. For a moment, all my troubles are gone.

“I’m…uh…” my tongue feels thick and useless as I rack my brain for my assumed identity. “I was robbed...”

“Undoubtedly.” Wendell replies dryly. “Wasn’t able to find any ID or personal effects, and it didn’t sit well with us to leave you at the hospital without any knowledge of how you got there. Figured you’d take better to two retired dentists than cold-shouldered doctors and nosy police officers.”

“You don’t know me.” I said. “How’d you gather I wouldn’t harm you after I came to?” Surely they’ve seen my Dark Mark and can surmise that no decent law-abiding bloke would have that brazenly displayed.

The couple shares a sad look between themselves before addressing me.

“You rambled quite a bit in your delirium.” Monica begins, absentmindedly stroking the rim of her teacup. “You begged to be forgiven, to not have to go through with whatever horror you were facing, and made it quite clear you were unwilling to participate. It was heartbreaking. And I gather that anyone that guilt-ridden wouldn’t be someone so willing to do another harm.”

It felt like a punch in the gut. I feel even more pathetic than I thought I possibly could be. So not only am I quite terrible at trying to live Muggle but I’m also a whimpering lout in my sleep. Great.

“Seeing as you’re in a bad way, far from home, it’s apparent that you’re in exile. Self or mandated-doesn’t matter-but you’re not going to last long living like a bum in alien territory. Least let us feed and clothe you if you’re so determined to keep running.” The man says calmly. He’s quite keen for a muggle, I’ll give him that.

I drink my tea and nibble on biscuits, doing my mother proud with my manners although I’m seconds away from giving into the urge of diving into the food platter like Weasley during Feast Night. Monica and Wendell don’t press for details but instead warm me up to the idea of living in the Southern Hemisphere, in a climate quite opposite of what I’ve been accustomed. They reminisce about what they do remember of England before their sudden urge to pack it all up and leave for the Land Down Under.

Something about the time they mention tickles in the back of my mind. They managed to leave right before the war officially started, lucky timing for them. Something about this woman also chimes a little bell for me although I cannot for the life of me say how. I feel like I know her-though it’s preposterous because I’ve rarely come into contact with Muggles-Muggleborns are another matter entirely.

They insist I rest, drink fluids, rub this slime substance in a bottle called Aloe Vera into my blistered skin and eat to build my strength back up. I hadn’t realized it until I’d changed from the pajamas into day clothes lent by Wendell that I’d dropped a few kilos. Buying and heating up cheap burritos and bags of crisps hadn’t done well for my physique. Neither did the liquor on a mostly empty stomach.

While lying in bed I am able to recall my false name, I practice saying it out loud. It sounds so foreign on my tongue but I need to get accustomed to it. I can’t remember anything else that was on the little card, lot of good that thing was. They both take turns checking up on me, bringing me food, tea, medication for my apparent anemia and vitamins to start building up my immune system, all while I sit there answering delicately asked questions or listening to more little anecdotes.

Good kind people they are.

It doesn’t take them long to come to a conclusion about my well-being, despite all my protesting and valid arguments-which makes me feel like I’m back to bickering with Granger at Hogwarts-they decide to take me in.

They have the spare room.

They know what it’s like being new here.

They couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me to my own demise, seeing as I’m incapable of taking care of myself.

And they’ve always wanted children, so helping me get on my feet lets them live that vicarious dream.

Honestly, how could even I say no to that?  
………………………


	2. Hunt For Answers

So there I was, standing before the Wizengamot, pleading my case that Draco Malfoy had indeed, done us a solid by not identifying Harry when we were dragged into the Manor that Easter holiday. He surely knew Ronald and me, as we didn’t have time to disguise ourselves even if we knew we’d be face-to-face with our class bully for identification. The Stinging Hex had swelled Harry’s face to that of a mutated pumpkin, but knowing who the two of us were was a dead giveaway. We were a package deal since first year.

But all he said, trying to sound as uncertain as possible, was that he couldn’t be sure. And given how large the Weasley family was, they didn’t doubt Ronald was some obscure relative that just got caught up in all this Snatcher business. But myself, now that he couldn’t play dumb on. I’d met Lucius once before, at the start of second year, and while the time in Azkaban had done a number on his health, there was no mistaking the man pressuring his son for identification. And he seemed to remember me oddly enough.  
I could see it on his face then as clear as day. He didn’t want to be involved anymore. Whatever had occurred in his home previous to my arrival had already convinced him that he was on the wrong side and he wanted it all to end. Making sure Harry lived to escape ensured our victory, as well as the part his mother played in claiming that he was dead after the Avada.

While Ronald couldn’t get over the litany of antagonistic acts Malfoy had brought upon us in all our young years, Harry was able find that-and tossing him his wand- had pretty much balanced it out. It led to the win. It saved the wizarding world. So it was just Harry and I, our word against the world, our memories testifying the irrefutable truth, and Draco looking as somber as that wretched day in the drawing room with his eyes downcast like a scolded child.

He looked so diminished, even worse than he had in sixth year, when it all began and the enormity of his task hadn’t quite sunk in and then when it had it was far too late to stop its momentum. Now I knew though, he was under such duress. Fear of what would happen to his parents if he failed, the guilt of deaths brought upon some students and their families because he hadn’t. There was no win no matter choice he made, and he hadn’t been given any option out.

I felt that.

I obliviated myself out of my parents’ lives to keep them safe and alive, sent to Australia so they could live in ignorant bliss before gallivanting off for a year to live in a tent and hunt for cursed objects containing part of the dark wizard’s soul. What a fun year.

So yes, if anyone here could even remotely begin to understand what Draco Malfoy had to endure, and was willing to, just to keep them safe, it was me. And I made that adamantly clear. While I couldn’t go into too many details about them for security’s sake, I at least could emphasize from my standing as a Muggleborn and thus a subject of the targeted to be exterminated. 

We were excused after our testimonies for them to deliberate on. I had no idea what they would decide but I had done my part. Harry and I had done far more than our fair share for the war. The least they could for us was not throw Draco into Azkaban. Hell, he had just turned eighteen. That was no way to start one’s adult life.

I don’t find out about his sentence until weeks later in the Daily Prophet as I’m purchasing my school supplies for my return to Hogwarts to redo my seventh year, as well as being named Head Girl. I’m floored by the news while everyone else cheers enthusiastically.

~Draco Malfoy banned from Wizarding World, off in Exile~

My eyes do not deceive me as I read Skeeter’s article and later follow through with a visit to the Wizengamot and demand to see the documents regarding the trial. I even flaunt the “Hero” card to make it perfectly clear I am not screwing around. I read their sentencing judgment with a weight in my gut. Their version of mercy is laughable. How do they expect a wealthy pureblood wizard raised on bigoted beliefs to suddenly fare well living among Muggles in some other country? Was he even in a place where he knew the language? I knew his family had French ancestry; it’s quite possible they sent him off there.

Words from Shacklebolt do not placate me.

“Look, I know you feel indebted to his family for their final turnabout, but we simply cannot allow him to walk the streets of Wizarding London and not expect some backlash. His father is serving his sentence and Mrs. Malfoy is doing her own penance by supporting several charities created in the wake of the war. You’ll be happy to know that they’ve relinquished all possible dark artifacts in their possession and outfitted the Auror’s department in the current brooms on the market as well as efforts in rebuilding Hogwarts-”  
“Oh yes,” I snap. “Buying their way back into the good graces just like they did in second year, giving the entire Slytherin team new brooms! Fucking wizards and their weakness for a good stick of wood!” I scream.

I turn on him with all my fury. “Where is he?”

Shaklebolt just shakes his head. “Undisclosed. Out of my hands. And I wouldn’t tell you of all witches considering what you endured in his home.”

“That’s not for you to decide! How is he supposed to earn forgiveness for those he’s wronged if he’s shuttered away? He needs to be here! To return to Hogwarts and face the music!”

“Consider Draco Malfoy dead Miss Granger, he’s not coming back to Great Britain. He can rebuild himself elsewhere, where no one knows what he’s done and possibly have a decent life. You gave him a second chance, now he’s using it.”

I squint my eyes at this man that I normally respect. “Your second chance is most certainly a death sentence waiting to happen unless he’s got someone teaching him how to live as a Muggle.”

I’m in a right state when Harry and Ronald decide to inform me of their plan to skip their eighth year and head straight along into the Auror program, becoming two of their youngest recruits and working with intel given up by the Malfoy’s to continue the hunt for rogue Death Eaters that disappeared after the final battle. I can certainly see the appeal of continuing the good fight but it hurts all the same knowing I’m returning to school without my best mates and even my best rival to keep me motivated.

My job as Head Girl gives me privileges that most students could only dream of. I have private quarters and a bathroom and common room that I share with the Head Boy, Ravenclaw Michael Corner, and have no curfew and the ability to apparate on/off school grounds. I supervise meetings with the prefects along with any and all activities sanctioned like dances and Quidditch after-parties. I can award and deduct points and I even assist the professors in teaching class.

All my assignments end up with E’s and O’s, my N.E.W.T.S. are enough to make Godric Gryffindor weep with pride. I manage to cross that bridge from acquaintance into tentative friendship with some Slytherins, but none of them have heard from Draco all year. I’m not sure if they’d tell me if they had. But at least there’s no more calling me a Mudblood, and the inter-house unity that Headmistress McGonagall had strived for had been achieved in some measure.

The year is for lack of a better word, dull. No basilisk on the loose, Inquisitorial Squad to dodge, and conspiracial articles to hex a journalist over. I end up with so much time on my hands after completing my assignments that I turn to the library to research all I can on memory charms and the process of reversing Obliviations. I interrogate every professor whether it’s in their field of knowledge or not. I press for uninterrupted time in the Headmistress’s office to speak to the portraits. I am devouring every morsel I can in this breadcrumb trail leading into the unknown.

I have to get my parents back, no matter what it takes.

But portraits can only say so much, and the living professors are honestly disappointing in their lack of information. An Obliviate is supposed to be a final course of action-irreversible-and I must learn to live with that, I’m told.

It isn’t until Snape resigns with a lofty sigh and eye roll that I’ve come to know so well that I know he’s going to give me something I can work with. School is nearly over and I’ve barely made any headway. Although I am in no way prepared for the answer he gives me.

“Speak with Narcissa Malfoy.”

Graduation is a somber event. I’ve never felt so alone as I stand there with the graduates of this year’s sevenths and the returning few such as Neville, Ginny, Luna, Padma & Parvati, Michael, Terry, and Anthony. Not to mention the Slytherins Blaise, Theodore, and Pansy. But we all know it isn’t the same without Harry, Ronald, and yes, even Draco Malfoy to stir up trouble and make things interesting. My calmest year and it ends so lacklusterly.

The Weasley’s practically adopt me with their warm welcome and room of my own-seeing as how Ron and I haven’t progressed any further than that heat-of-the-moment kiss and the few brief letters throughout the year. He was always on the move with Harry, chasing leads and making arrests, living in the spotlight of his own making and feeling like he’d finally stepped out of the shadows. He wasn’t always paired with Harry, and had his own partner and circle of friends to hang out when they couldn’t meet up. Things were looking good for him.

I on the other hand, had an obsession I couldn’t shake, like an addiction I couldn’t kick and needed to find a way to make it work-even if that meant returning to the place where I was tortured and the family that had caused me so much grief.

But Shacklebolt had profusely protested on Lady Malfoy’s behalf of her willingness to do right by whatever was requested of her in effects regarding the war. If anything, she couldn’t really refuse me. And if she couldn’t help, then at least some of that bloody Malfoy money could be spent on research and training for a sect of wizards specialized to do just what I needed.

When I voiced my plan at dinner that evening, the silence that followed was enough to make me believe I had gone deaf for a moment. The entire redheaded clan looked at me as if I’d grown another head with purple hair and was singing in Parseltongue. And they continued staying silent, with darting blue eyes seeking another family member out for reassurance until Harry spoke.

“Why did Snape suggest her?” his question was delivered calm and collected, as if he had somehow taken direction from McGonagall after all this time.

“He couldn’t elaborate much further, but he said if anyone could, it would be her. Naturally, my curiosity has been piqued enough to test the theory.”

“Test the theory?” Ron barked. “You’re not in bloody school anymore Mione! I thought you were gonna go for some position in the Ministry like us, the Golden Trio reunited again!” He cheers with a raised glass.

I do not share the enthusiasm. Nor do I see the glamor in the dangerous job they have, or returning into the spotlight. I can tell by the wavering faces around the table that most were under the same impression-like it was just so bloody expected of me to fall back in line with these two. No, I had done my fair share of keeping them alive and all for a good cause, and we’ve taken so many turns returning the favor that it all seems like a blur. Who owes who now? Doesn’t really matter when we’re all together. But I don’t want to spend another seven years or more playing the wizarding version of Russian Roulette. 

“It’s already been two years.” I start out softly, making sure everyone hears me, and knows by my tone that I am not going into a lecture. “The longer my parents remain Obliviated the harder it will be to separate the real memories from the implanted ones. And while the lot of you have become my magical family, I still want my parents around to see me achieve the goals I want to reach in life. A career, publishing a book, perhaps marriage and children…all of that. I need to find a reliable source that can support this endeavor, even if it is by someone who was considered the enemy.”

“She has been donating plenty of galleons to worthy causes.” Molly concedes as she picks up a plate and dollops food onto it. “Even if she personally cannot help, she can at least fund it.”

“Exactly.” I say in exhaustion. Finally, someone sees it my way. 

“Oh come on, like she’ll even let you onto the property. You should take us with you.” Ron scoffs.

Harry gives Ron a look that clearly translates into ‘really?’ for just automatically volunteering his services and implying that my blood status would still be considered an affront to Lady Narcissa Malfoy. It seems that some things still haven’t changed with my friends…not sure I can say that’s a bad or good thing right now.

My opinion quickly changes though, as Ronald continues, oblivious to the obvious disdain seething from my eyes and the popped jaws of his family members who are wondering what the hell just possessed their youngest son to say such things?

In my outrage and embarrassment, I can’t even recall all what was said, and it’s probably for the best. After all, like Ron said, some things are left best forgotten and that was the kicker. I was done.

Something was thrown, a plate, my fist? Dunno. I instantly stopped caring.

I immediately first apparated to 12 Grimmauld Place to pack a quick to-go bag, as that was often my second home from home and then continuing running on rage and lack of cognitive rational thought, followed through with another apparation to Malfoy Manor.

I’m banging on the door of the impressive mansion before I can talk myself out of it, realizing a little too late that it is evening, and she probably might have guests, might even have retired for the night, but frankly I’m following through with this impulsive decision to its end.

The door opens and there she stands, beside a well-dressed House Elf looking at me like she’s seen a ghost. In some way she has. Little over a year ago I was screaming in agony on what was once a lovely dark wooden paneled floor, my blood seeping between the cracks. Now here I am, looking a bit on the frazzled side and cheeks flushed from my temper, feeling the adrenaline fade with each breath.

“Miss Granger.” The woman delicately states, composing herself far quicker than myself. “I always figured you’d find your way back here once more.”


	3. Learning With the Wilkins

I dedicated it to memory, after having my fingerprints inked and pressed on a chart as another way to identify myself in Muggle Hell. As part of the agreement I was to still to uphold the secrecy of magic and adhere to the story that I was in a biker gang and involved in a turf war. Luckily, they had procured some generic images for me to imprint into my mind. The motorcycle-a riding machine on two wheels-was a terrifying contraption that was the common mode of transportation with the dredges of society and often associated with such. Photographs of men in leather vests sporting tattoos that consisted often of snakes and skulls would also give people this impression of me. And the black handheld killing weapons they carried called guns is what I should refer to my use of my wand of.

If I manage to keep that straight, and say I took a “plea deal” then most people will not question any further about my life. 

But most people do not include the Wilkins.

They see right through me as I keep fumbling over basic knowledge facts, such as my own name, because I’ll be damned if I can get such a simple Muggle name to roll off my tongue convincingly. And it doesn’t help that I don’t respond to it immediately like someone should.

So they sit me down and with warm smiles and open hearts, ask me who I really am. I can see the game is up, lost it before I even knew the rules, and honestly, if they decide they don’t want me around who I am to say otherwise? Without their generosity I’ll just end up dead in a ditch somewhere within a week like I would’ve been already.

“Tom-we know that’s not your real name. No one needs to practice saying their own name out loud.”

Ah shit, they heard me.

“And we can tell you were raised with a proper upbringing. Trying to make us believe you’re some renegade biker doesn’t add up.”

I shrug my shoulders and sigh. “Alright, no more pulling the wool over your eyes. True, my name is not Tom-Thomas, whatever the ID card said. It was assigned to me. I did in fact take a plea deal and avoid prison though. I was involved with bad people. And you’re right to think that maybe you’ve made a mistake, taking me in. And I’ll leave without a fuss if that’s what you decide.” I stand to leave but I’m immediately ordered to sit back down.

“We didn’t say any of that.” Monica states. “But we would like to know what to call you. You can tell us, just once, what your name truly is before we take you in to get you a new ID.”

“A new one?” I ask. I didn’t know you could get a new one.

“It’s a bit of a process, mostly a hassle but you’ve been finger-printed so you’ll be in the system. What do you say?” Wendell asks. Like I have any clue what to do.

“It was Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” I hesitantly answer.

Monica’s eyes fly wide open. “Oh my, now that’s a name to remember. Dragon of Bad Faith…I can certainly see why you’d need to change it.”

“I beg your pardon?” I am dumbfounded. I never would’ve expected these regular plain people to be able to translate my name’s meaning and origin so quickly.

“We can call you Drake if you wish, similar enough while you get accustomed to answering elsewhere as Tom Felton.” Wendell adds.

“Thomas Drake Felton. Now I like the sound of that.” Mrs. Wilkins says with a beaming smile. She really is too much to disagree with. So I nod along with our established trust, rolling the name over my tongue and in my mind so it feels natural to say. When we do arrive at the building there is a lot of waiting involved, and where I fumble in my answers the Wilkins more than make up for it with clever white lies.

It honestly reminds me of Potter and Granger getting away with so much during school.

Luckily those fingerprints helped verify my case when I couldn’t produce even a passport to convince the clerk. Being honest-to-goodness robbed happens quite often to tourists, and they’ve seen and heard it all. The Wilkins pay the fee-honestly, paying for something that was originally mine and stolen from me? Where is the justice in that?-and I am reissued credible identification once again. Wendell even gets me my own wallet to carry it in. Both of them teach me how to use the currency here, and compare it to British sterling-of which I can calculate to the equivalent of wizarding gold thanks to Muggle Studies-and find that they have far more intermediate measures and fractures of their paper and coin system, allowing for a more common use.

While they both might be retired from their original practice of teeth healing, they do live in a modest little house with a parcel of land that they tend themselves and keep livestock on. After outfitted in some rugged outdoor type clothing, I am given a very hands-on crash course in the life of the everyday Aussie. Wendell says I won’t get anywhere in life unless I have claim to experience when applying for employment, and a farmhand is a basic skill most have and are always on demand for.

And here I thought Quidditch in a rainstorm was difficult.

My body is screaming with aches from muscles I didn’t even know I had, and my once pale skin eventually becomes a golden tan after that terrible pink phase I was in. After seeing the stark contrast once I remove my shirt, I eventually conceded and lie out in the sun to get the full body effect. No more horrible mismatched portions of skin.  
I find the telly fascinating. I had to somehow explain that I’d grown up in a strict old fashioned way before being sent off to boarding school, so they could understand my unusual reaction to it and video tapes. Live action or animated-both are treasures!-I don’t care; I love to watch them after a long day in the sun. The animated ones are definitely themed for children but I get the odd delight out of the songs and silly characters. I don’t know why I cried when the little deer’s mother was shot, obviously it wasn’t real, but it still somehow struck a chord within me.

“Why do you have movies for children if you never had any?” I ask one day.

Monica is in the kitchen, helping me perfect my dish washing skills and stops suddenly. A queer look crosses her face like she’s almost remembered something, but shakes her head and shrugs. “I suppose, we just enjoyed them too.”

It’s not a very satisfying answer, but considering I’m not being 100% forthwith on my own past, I can’t really press for details. 

I eventually learn to cook. It’s a lot like Potions Class, with all the ingredients being edible-except the bay leaves-and there’s a lot less stirring when making things like pot roast or casserole. I am great at soup. The satisfaction of creating something that someone else enjoys is foreign to me, but another thing I can say I am proud of. Turns out, I have a knack for it, finding complimentary flavors and textures.

Work with Wendell is demanding on my body. He can tell right away I lived a far more “comfortable” life as he put it, but is still patient through all my failures until I get it right. I can chop wood, shovel sheep droppings-yes, the Slytherin prince has sunk that low-and tend the garden. I come home every day smelling and looking like the worst of life has shite on me and Mrs. Wilkins just beams with pride, handing me a towel as I make my way to the shower.

For all this mundane existence, I am still not free of my past. It haunts me in the recess of my mind, late at night when my body is too weak to fight back and I succumb to slumber. Visions of blood. It’s always blood. Screams of the tortured and dying. Granger’s screams. The sight of my old beloved school in ruins, smoldering.

Plenty of nights I wake up in a cold sweat, a scream in my throat, my heart damn near beating out of my chest.

The Wilkins suggest I talk to a “therapist” but I staunchly refuse. There’s no way in hell I could even talk about it with a wizarding Mind-Healer if that was an option, how could I even explain it to a Muggle one? 

Oh yes, we pointed wands at each other and shot deadly colorful fireballs while a giant snake ate people and a girl I picked on all through school was tormented in my own house.

As if that wouldn’t get me locked up in their own version of St. Mungo’s or Azkaban.

But my night terrors are their concern, and they’re teaching me so much about life in general, not just the Muggle way but the way it just is, so I slowly start to open up. I tell them a diluted version of how we all arrived at our boarding school; I was snubbed by some famous prat, so I picked on him and his friends. I grew up with money to toss around and I let everyone know it when my father outfitted the Team with new equipment. I kept it vague and they didn’t push.

I told them I was raised in a bigoted, racist established household and claimed to be of noble blood because we could trace our ancestry so far. Even though I had private tutors and the best that money could buy, I was still second after some bushy haired nobody of a girl, so I called her terrible names and tried sabotaging her projects.

If any of this appalls them, they don’t show it.

I explain the scars on my chest as those from a knife fight in a bathroom. Which I very nearly did almost lose my life to. I mention how some members of my family were radically involved with this gang and I was initiated without realizing that I was merely a tool. I even fess up to the plot of them wanting my headmaster dead, using me to do so. And how I nearly killed two other students with my lackluster attempts.

At that, Monica puts a hand to her mouth. “How terrible! And you were only sixteen?”

I nod solemnly. “I literally turned eighteen during the course of my trial, just before I was brought here.”

“That’s already quite the rap sheet.” Wendell notes. “So I’m guessing the worst is yet to come.”

“It does.” I reply. “It involves murders, torture, and so much blood…”

“And you had to participate in it, because your family was so heavily involved.” He concluded.

I just nod, unable to say anything more. I’m waiting for them to finally wake up from their rose-tinted dream that I’m somehow this savable, redeemable, likeable person. I’m waiting for the looks of disgust and the wall of trust to crumble. Instead I get hurtful eyes; wounded knowing that I was a child who didn’t know better and followed orders and did so to save my own skin.

And before I know it, I’m enveloped in a tight embrace, the arms of a mother comforting a child, the warmth she pours into it. I bet this is what a hug from Molly Weasley feels like.

“Mione, let the lad breathe.” Wendell admonishes, and my lungs fail to take in oxygen the moment I hear that nickname. I’d heard it so many times from the Dumb Duo in regards to their academic wonder of their trio.

Why does everything eventually remind me of her?

Haven’t I suffered enough with the nightmares and flashbacks and guilt as she stood there and testified on my behalf, trying to save my pathetic hide in a final coup de grâce from her benevolence? Did she tell them to exile me? Was this dry and desolate country her grand scheme in revenge for all the wrongs I caused her?

Or is this just these kind people, in all their mannerisms and quick wit and generosity just constantly reminding me of her?

“Why did you call her that?” I blurt out; right after Mrs. Wilkins relinquishes her hold on me.

“Oh that? Mione?” he shrugs. “Just always been her nickname, isn’t that right dear?”

Again, that look in her eye like she’s almost caught a thought before it slips away. “Of course Wendell. Couldn’t imagine why else.”

“I’m guessing all this guilt you’re still holding onto is about that girl, isn’t it?”

Honestly, either I’ve completely lost any ability to mask my emotions or the Wilkins are just too damn smart for their own good.

“Well, I never did get to apologize before being sent here.” I glumly say. “Like it would’ve mattered anyhow, she probably didn’t want anything further to do with me after testifying for I never saw her after that.”

“She what?” Monica asks in an astonished voice.

Oh shit, I said that last part out loud. Fuck.

I’m clearly at a loss for words now, gaping like a dying fish and feeling the sweat bead cross my forehead. I really was hoping to avoid going into any detail about this part. But I see it in their eyes, their curiosity, their right to know who they’re harboring in their home.

I shut my eyes. “She was the one tortured in the drawing room.” I state with a wince, knowing they’re probably thinking the worst of me now. “I didn’t do it…but I didn’t stop it either…”

“Tortured?” Monica whispered, aghast at the word. “Was she…?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question.

I immediately shake my head. “Oh god no, nothing like that.” I proclaim, waving my hands in revulsion at the very thought of what Greyback might’ve done if they’d handed her over to him. “My psychotic aunt took a knife to her arm after…after…just beating her nearly to death. She thought she had something that belonged to her.”

Even just saying it all out loud does nothing to ease my conscience nor the feeling that Mrs. Wilkins will regard me as some sort of deviant.

“If she testified on your behalf, then surely, you doing nothing was probably your best course of action.” Wendell sagely replies.

I shoot my eyes open at them. 

“After all, she could’ve very well told the police you partook, or even orchestrated it. But she didn’t. That tells me that you were in no position to put a stop to it without endangering yourself. And what that tells me about her is she a very special person, capable of forgiveness, and smart enough to know your act of involvement was coerced.”

My knees shake so bad that I slump back into the chair I was once sitting in; the feeling gutted like that gaping fish I had turned into briefly and rubbed a hand over my face. Suddenly a glass of water is handed to me, I never even heard Mrs. Wilkins turn on the tap. I drink, trying to calm my nerves. “How can you guys be so forgiving to me? Would you be so willing if it had been your own daughter?”

“If we had a daughter that was even half as bright as us we’d still be proud of her. But we would’ve raised her to see beyond the black and white of the law, and to use her moral judgement for that grey area, and do what is right.” She answers as if she’s had that response ready for some time.

“And if you were involved, and she could find it in her heart to forgive you, then we could too. Because we would trust her judgement.”

All this conjecture over the all mighty If has my head spinning and stomach flopping. With as much grace as I can muster, I excuse myself to my little room and throw myself against the bed. This feels too cloying, all the forgiveness and understanding and sympathies. Why aren’t they horrified of what I’ve confessed to? Why aren’t they throwing me out of their house and calling for the law officers? Why do they bother still trying to fix my broken soul?

I’m a bad guy. I’ve been a bad guy far longer than I’ve even recognized my actions as deplorable and unmoral. They should be lucky they don’t have a daughter or any child at all, and that they left Britain when they did. Their blood could’ve very well been spilt on my land, by my own hand if I had been ordered to do so, or by people I knew in service of the Dark Lord. I worry what I would’ve done had I been on those muggle killing missions, if I had been hard-pressed to slit the throat of Granger had aunt Bellatrix handed me her knife and ordered me to do so. How far would I have fallen into darkness if the war carried on any longer? If they hadn’t escaped and destroyed all the horcruxes? Would I have eventually ended up a murderer?

They should despise me, as I do myself.

I’m not worth this kindness.


	4. Asking Narcissa

My Gryffindor courage flounders but my loyalty and dedication to my cause keep me upright as the woman actually invites me into her home. She escorts me along the grand receiving room and past walls that once hung with portraits of Malfoys’ gone by, now replaced with fine art. Each step clacks with an echo, a stark reminder that Narcissa lives alone and for all she knows, will never be reunited with her husband and son in this lifetime.

“It is a later hour than I usually receive unexpected guests, but, have you eaten?” she inquires with what sounds like authentic concern for my well-being, seeing as I barged upon her property so boldly.

“Actually…I was in the middle of dinner, when I was prompted into coming here.” I sheepishly reply.

“Prompted.” She chortles. “Rather an odd hour for prompting. Have you not heard of the term ‘sleeping on it’? It usually sets one’s mind right against doing something rashly.”

Oh she caught me.

“Dinner at the Weasley’s must be a chaotic event. Many opinions floating around. Probably not many favorable in regards to my family.” She continues, leading me into the formal dining room. “Sit.” She orders, but in a motherly tone.

Awkwardly I stand, until the well-dressed elf comes and asks politely to take my bag, which I had somewhat forgotten that I even had slung over my shoulder. Another elf pulls out the chair for me and I let myself be drawn in. After all, I’ve come here for a business proposal; a free meal is just a perk.

A covered plate is hovered in and set before me, revealing a steaming heap of lamb and vegetables. It is mouthwatering. Narcissa doesn’t sit herself all the way across at the other head of the table, but rather, just catty corner to me. I’m momentarily put off by her proximity but I begin to cut into the buttery soft meat and bring it to my mouth as she lifts a tumbler rife with the strong scent of firewhiskey. She smirks at me, an all too familiar Malfoy feature.

“Did you expect me to only indulge in vintage elf wine?” she scoffs. “Enough liquor in the manor alone to stock an entire pub. I might as well enjoy it. After all, that’s mainly what guests come for anyway. The meal and the drink. Malfoy Manor now has the allure of a four star restaurant for those who want the notoriety of having been here. Like it’s a place to check of their achieved goals list.”

My eyes blink several times at the dour tone in which she describes her massively empty home as she sips her amber alcohol and waxes poetic on the decline of her social grace. I just try to simply enjoy the meal; it might be the only one I ever eat here. I do however, abstain from partaking when she offers, I’ve never been one to drink anyways. I’m quite content with my sparkling mineral water. I suddenly remember that Draco’s birthday was earlier this month, and that it’s been a whole year since his exile. The poor woman is probably having a hard time keeping it together at this time of year.

“So, I assume you’ve come on an urgent matter. One no doubt where every second that goes by feels like a waste if it’s not running towards your deemed worthy cause.” My god does she ever sound like Draco. No wonder he had such a flare for the dramatic. Could just be the liquor talking. Could be the horrible year she’s had and I’m the last person she ever expected to show up on her doorstep.

“You’re right. I have come here on what is an urgent matter, for myself.”

She breathes in a long inhale and stretches her back. I hadn’t noticed until then but she had been slightly slouching. The crystal cut tumbler gives a harsh thunk as she sets it on the smooth polished surface of the dining table. “How much do you need?” she asks as she motions for an elf to bring her cheque book.

“Oh.” I am taken back by the abrupt willingness of seeing the Malfoy matriarch to part with any said amount of gold without even asking what it’s for. Perhaps she’s just grown accustomed to people barging on her door and demanding she compensate them for perceived wrongdoings. I could probably tell her any made up number and she’d just write it along with a nod and send me on my merry way.

That thought sickens me.

“I’m not here for money.” I say, watching her hand freeze in midair as she was preparing to press the quill to paper. “I’ve come here because I was recommended. If you can’t help me then maybe I might request for funds, but I’d rather see to it straightforwardly.”

Her eyes, once glossy with the effects of drowning her sorrow now become clear and focused. For once, someone is asking for her rather than her money. I see the need to be useful, the desperation to be more than a personal bank and maybe now I understand why Professor Snape suggested her.

“Who recommended my services? And for what?” she inquires with a nonchalance that I know is masking the thrill of curiosity coursing through her veins.

“Professor Severus Snape’s portrait. On the matter of reversing the Obliviation spell.”

She stiffens and then picks up the tumbler, throws the rest of the contents down and delicately sets the glass upon the table with noble grace. “I see.” She says softly. “Would this have anything to do with Draco?”

Oh, so she believes he might’ve been obliviated and dropped off somewhere, and that I might know his whereabouts…

“No actually.” I answer, watching her face for a hint of emotion to tell me whether I was right or not. “I’m going to be completely honest with you. I obliviated my parents into forgetting my existence before setting off on the lam with Harry and Ronald. I made sure they were safe from being hunted. That was two years ago, and all through my school year I dug and dug for anything that could help me reverse what I’d done. With little time left in the final semester Snape said to seek you out.”

I can tell my story does hit her, she is a mother after all, and she lied to the Dark Lord himself into believing he’d killed Harry, to protect her own son, and would do it all over again if the cards were stacked once more. My act of desperation gave me peace of mind while being on the run, so that I didn’t succumb to the depression that Ron did as he listened to the wireless each night, begging and praying to not hear a family member listed. That didn’t mean I didn’t have those I worried for, that didn’t mean I wasn’t immune to the overwhelming darkness looming over our shoulders. But I could rest easier knowing my parents weren’t even in this hemisphere, let alone the country, and therefore had dodged the massacre of muggleborn parents.

It takes a long time before she conjures up the words to speak. All the while I worry if coming here had been the right thing after all, seeing as she’s clearly had a few fingers of whiskey and has been wallowing in her own social exile with nothing but hope and the misery it brings at not knowing the whereabouts or condition of her only child. I find myself oddly concerned for the ferret as well.

“Snape…he was wise to send you here.” She says. “But tonight I cannot offer much more than a room a sleep in and a breakfast to follow. This is something that needs a sober mind to ruminate upon.”

“Oh I couldn’t…I can come back tomorrow-”

“Nonsense young lady.” She waves me off dismissively. “You show up in the dead of night, with a pack, and on a half fed stomach. Just where did you intend to go? Back to the Burrow? To the old Grimmauld house? Or did you for certain want to be in a place where none of your friends could so easily follow?”

I have to give credit where it’s due. Even being half pissed as she is, she still can string together with observant deduction that I quite literally left everyone behind to pursue this lead and possibly burned a bridge or two on my way out.

“I can assure you, the drawing room is no more.” She assures me with her steely blue gaze. “We couldn’t stomach the nightmares that followed every time we walked past it. Draco set to celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord by destroying that room with his bare hands, smashing the windows and furniture and then lighting it ablaze.”

My breath is caught in my throat.

“Once it was burned away we sealed off the old doorway. Now it is as if it never existed, just another few panels of wall with a painting to be on display. You’ll never have to worry about that dreaded room as long as you’re here. I hope that gives you some comfort tonight.” She takes to her feet, wobbles ever so slightly but I pretend not to notice. Who am I to judge her vice when she has so little left to cling to now?

“I believe now is a good time to retire. The elves will show you a guest room. Tipper and Snuffy will be at your service. And yes my dear, they are freed and employed.”

I can’t help but smile. It is one of the charities she has so adamantly thrown thousands of galleons at in effort to shed the taint of the Malfoy name. While it was somewhat necessary that the Auror Division was in sore need of equipment and training, and the Ministry needed to train a whole queue of new blood recruits to fill positions once influenced by Voldemort’s followers, and settlements for children orphaned or families devastated by their loss, the old S.P.E.W. campaign of mine I started in fourth year had finally received its due. 

House elves all over Great Britain were freed, gainfully employed, and now had rights to report abuse (in all its varying forms) against said previous owners. Some stayed with their families, some took to public service like in Hogwarts, and others sought positions within the Ministry in secrecy (I had Harry and Ron be my little birdies that kept me updated on such going ons). The contributions made by the Malfoy funds made it possible, and almost make me feel indebted, that is, until I remember anything remotely having to do with them in my life with literal proof carved into my arm that they aren’t nearly done owing me.

So I accept the offer and follow the two elves, judging by their clothing I believe they are both males, and make myself comfortable in the guest room that night with a full stomach of rich food and the softest bed I’m sure I’ve ever slept on with peace of mind for once that I just might be on the right track.

The following morning Snuffy awakens me and announces breakfast is ready, although it is more like brunch seeing as how heavily I slept. The little elf assures me that I am in no way late, for Lady Malfoy has taken to sleeping in later-especially after she’s indulged in spirits. I even have my own bathing chamber-a true delight-as I scrub my face and primp myself to at least appear like the well-bred lady I was raised to be. Instead of the formal dining room where I took supper I am led to the conservatory, a wire framed little table and chairs for two with the lady of the house already sitting, sipping delicately on a strong cup of coffee I can taste from the doorway.

She is of course, dressed elegantly-even if what she’s wearing is considered house robes, has her gorgeous long blonde hair down and loosely swept back. Apparently not trying too hard to look as intimidating as all the other times I’ve seen her. After all, why stand on ceremony as she is a Sacred 28 Pureblood and I’m just a nobody Mudblood that always outsmarted her haughty son? The table is set for two, orange juice and a full English breakfast, piping hot tea and even a little bouquet of white roses in the middle-a taste of elegance or a possible white flag?-amongst the fragrant air of the greenery around us.

“I like my breakfasts in here,” she starts suddenly, even before I reach my seat. “Something about being among the plants as they awake, it brings me joy. They do need caring for after all. So many rare and exotic flowers that could wither in lesser qualified hands.”

Her sadness permeates between the lines. She’s lonely and needs a purpose. 

“So, spare no detail this time, and tell me your quandary.”

What follows is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a member of the Malfoy family, amicably as well, and becomes the heart-to-heart I’ve been longing for in the past two years since erasing myself from memory and walking away from all that I had ever known. My recent two years can be summed up in three distinct phases: being on the lam & fighting, the trials, and then my 8th year of school. I was far too busy being strong for everyone else to let anyone know how deeply I was hurting, and the rare times I felt free enough to express my personal heartache I was met with ‘At least your parents are still alive!’ and ‘You lived in a tent, you didn’t have to hide in the RoR, being on the hunt from the Carrows!’ and my personal favorite ‘Oh come on, you always pull through.’

Yes, I might always pull through. Because I’ve had to. It was literally life or death. And hiding from the Carrows only is marginally better than hiding from Snatchers, because had they known who I was on the spot they would’ve killed me, or given me to Fenrir Greyback to play with. And yes, my parents are alive, but what good is that when they do not know me? Molly became the surrogate mother to me as well as Harry long before we realized we’d ever needed her to, but it was hard to get a moment alone to talk, and then be in the mood to discuss such heavy topics. It just didn’t seem like that much of a priority when they were mourning Fred in their own ways and fretting over the safety of Ron and Harry.

Narcissa, bless her proper upbringing, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t cast judgmental looks or releases sniffs of disdain and certainly doesn’t downplay my sorrows. Before either of us realizes it, her hand is covering one of my own, her thumb rubbing soft little circles across its surface in a gesture that only a mother could do. 

It would appear that her prejudice on blood status no longer stands. She doesn’t see me as that annoying Mudblood swot that gave her son hell every year. Nor does she see me as the writhing tortured soul her sister tried to break for information. And she certainly doesn’t see me as the one responsible for Draco’s exile. I explain quite clearly that I had nothing to do with it, that my standing on giving him a second chance was for him to return to Hogwarts and complete his schooling, and then face the wizarding community with redemption in mind. I never wanted him banished from all he knew, it was worse than me obliviating my parents, for at least in some degree, I still had them.

After a hug that takes my breath away and leaves us both with tear streaked cheeks, hands clasped in unity of our shared grief, we become allies in the cause. She agrees to help me do whatever is necessary. Her library is open to my disposal, her bank account ready to sign for whatever I might need, and her guest room is mine for however long I need to stay to do my research and practice. 

It’s more than I ever hoped for or would’ve even thought to ask and I’d be a fool to let my pride get in the way of using it. This mutually benefits the both of us. She has company, a purpose to her lonely existence, and I get access to everything I need.

At least, that’s how it started.


	5. The Truth About Granger

It’s one thing to be raised up most of your life with a set belief, a strict regime of rules and regulations and obligations and responsibilities, and then it’s another thing entirely to watch all of it crumble into nothing. Everything I had been reared since birth was so succinctly black and white that grey only existed as my eye color and nothing more.  
Setting foot into Hogwarts that first year was eye opening in more ways than one. For instance, it was everything I expected it to be, thanks to plenty of accounts from my parents with the meticulous record keeping of their journals and pensieve memories. I already knew that building better than some fifth years without ever having stepped within its halls.

Then again, it became nothing like I expected with so many Muggleborns being accepted. Least of all, Her. And how infuriatingly brilliant she was in all her courses. This simple girl of no magical bloodline was blazing through each course like she’d already been through it all, but the joy was palpable on her face with each victory, each correct answer, and grade that she received. Always outdoing me. How? 

By the time the war became a fully-fledged strike against the wizarding world as we knew it, I realized I was on the wrong side. I had been even before I was born, for my father was carrying on his duties in loyal servitude from the one previous, and swore that he’d raised me to follow in his footsteps should he fall. He came so close to succeeding that it scares me. I was merely a product of the first war, groomed for the next, brainwashed into being a soldier that would tip the scale into their favor.

It’s hard to look at myself and not see a lifetime of mistakes, from the past that created me to the present result. My scars, my Dark Mark, my memories I cannot run nor hide from, they all weigh me down with the guilt that I didn’t a have choice, and then when I did, I barely made the best of it. I didn’t do anything when Granger was a twisted bloody mess in my own home, but at least I did something when I found out Potter was alive. It was all I could do. I can at least look back on that memory with pride.

I can’t take the compliments the Wilkins give me. They can claim my soup is wonderful and that I did an excellent job sheering the sheep and helping repair a fence and whatnot, but I just mumble along the natural response and hide in my room when I feel the darkness pull on me. Given how susceptible I was to muggle liquor when they found me, they rarely keep it at hand. There’s never more than a standard six pack in the refrigerator and they don’t purchase it frequently.

Wendell says I need an outlet, a hobby of sorts to occupy my time after chores so I don’t succumb. I do enjoy reading, and they have quite the collection of works. I already pawed through everything they had in their living room and study before they suggested the boxes in the attic.

After pulling down the ladder and poking my head up into the musty, hot and dust covered storage space above the house I see several boxes labeled books, as well as an acoustic guitar that Wendell chuffs proudly at, recalling it from his college days and tunes it up. He plays a few keys, warming up to the feel of the long stored away instrument, and I see that look in his eye that often crosses Monica’s…like he’s almost remembered something.

But he shakes his head and plucks each string, teaching me their note and placement and the thickness of each wire and how to pick them to receive different sounds and rattles off a song he refers to as a “classic” and I find myself bobbing along as if I’d heard it before. In fact, the melody does sound vaguely familiar, but the only reason I can think of why is if some Muggleborn at Hogwarts had played it and it stuck in my memory.

So there I go, arms loaded with a whole new stack of reading material-even if some of it is well beyond what I would even consider good literature-and a guitar to pluck at when I’m feeling down. My fingers blister and become red and sore; so on the days I can’t bear to play, I begin writing. At first the writing is just mere thoughts with no particular meaning, just the odd bit that pops into my head. Then I often come back to it, add on with something else that pairs along the similar train of thought, and before I know it, I’m full-fledged writing poetry/songs. I never even thought about it, but putting the words to simple college bound notebook paper somehow alleviates the burden on my heart-inch by inch. Not that it is a cure by any means; I still wake in the dead of night from my nightmares, I still get choked up with the odd emotion out of nowhere, I still slowly yet surely tell a little more about myself to the kind couple who are ever so patient with me. 

I have no sense of time anymore; one day just feels like the next. I wake up and eat a hearty breakfast and go out into the field. Out there I do a various assortment of chores that have now become second nature to me, my younger fit body more capable of doing than that of Mr. Wilkins with his waistline increasing from his wife’s wonderful cooking. Sometimes I take the guitar with me and sit, watching over the sheep and pluck the strings as I start mumbling to myself, the words barely audible over the bleats and barks. After more time of doing this, I actually give in and let the emotion take over, and I sing. I sing to the border collie, to the sheep, to the sun and the moon and to the memory of my mother-whether she lives or not is unknown and unbearable to linger on for very long.

With tan skin, hair that has lost its frosty appearance and a little bit of scruffy growth on my jaw, I hardly recognize myself. Gone are the tailored suits and custom shoes and in their place are torn jeans, khaki shorts, sandals or boots and colorful “Hawaiian” shirts with ridiculous patterns that scream borderline artistic masterpiece and eyesore. The work I’ve grown accustomed to doing has changed my body, from skinny teenager into physically fit young man-which none of my tailored suits would now fit anyways. Hardened muscles and defined curves and dips-like those of the shirtless men on those smutty bodice rippers Monica had squirrelled away in the attic-and hair grown loose and shaggy.

If I could manage to sneak back into the wizarding community I’d be unrecognized better than any disillusioned charm could do. Although the thought brings the ghost of a smile to my lips the thought vanishes into that dark hole I try to steer away from. It’s a bad place to go and it takes me so long to fight my way out of it. After a few calming breaths I go back to absentmindedly stroking the guitar and trying for once to think of the positive things that have happened since I arrived here.

The Wilkins. I wouldn’t be alive if not for a fateful intervention and their good natured hearts and my absolute pitiful condition where death was most certain. They’re the epitome of good in this world. Good like Potter and Granger and even Longbottom. Good because good must exist somewhere to balance out the bad, like me and my family and the likes of Voldemort.

They remind me just how good they are when they surprise me with a cake adorned with a candle and hand me a colorful card. It’s my birthday and I didn’t even realize it. One thing the Ministry didn’t change on my ID card, the date I was born. It wouldn’t matter given that I lived on the Muggle turf, and it was one less thing for me to have to remember keeping straight.

I’m now nineteen. Exiled from Great Britain, without a single friend or family member to reach out to, living off the kindness of two strangers that have become my surrogate parents, and having no idea it was actually June fifth when it normally was the most anticipated day of the year for me. Hot tears of gratitude and overwhelming loneliness pool from my eyes as I thank them, trying to excuse myself but only finding my body pressed into a hug from them both.

From their combined reassurance that it’s perfectly alright to feel conflicted about my current state of life and the direction it may go, just having someone to talk to is more than I can ask to be grateful for. They didn’t need to go out of their way to take me, feed me, clothe me, teach me to drive and cook and manually repair things. But they did, and there’s nothing that I can come close to in the way of paying them back. It’s something they’re also trying to teach me, that not every good deed is done for a reward, that it’s not a debt to later be repaid. People do it because they can and will-even if it puts them at risk of being taken advantage of-and the only way to genuinely pay it back is to do a kind deed for someone else in need.

Solitude is both my preference and bane of existence. It prevents me from mucking things up, the less people I’m around, but also I crave a more social scene. Wendell and Monica tell me I don’t have to dedicate my weekends to their little farm and if I want to go out and mingle I can. I would’ve never asked for permission and I think they can tell. But I’m not sure I’m ready for that until Wendell takes me to a local pub to watch a soccer game and enjoy some company. He tells everyone that I’m his nephew-because it would be far too awkward to call him Dad-and it explains my accent and fairer complexion in comparison to him. All I have to say is that I’m taking an off year from university and am just staying with them for the time. His local friends nod along and suggest sites to see and activities to do like surfing and scuba diving and chasing the local girls. I think I’d rather take my chances with the sharks than try to get with a girl at the moment. Pretty sure one night in my bed dealing with my demons would be enough to send any and all packing.

To prevent the uncomfortable and unwelcomed subject of potential single ladies (some of which are in the pub that they subtly point at) I just claim I have a girl back home. And naturally, they all want to know about her. I grimace and fidget, trying to come up with a girl to think of that I can wax poetic on-not like I didn’t have my fair share of them at Hogwarts-and all I can think of is Her.

Granger.

With a massive mane of curly chestnut locks and whiskey colored eyes, dusted freckles across her nose and plump lips she occasionally nibbled on. With an impressive IQ that kept me chasing her shadow for top marks. With a right hook that broke my nose when we were fourteen. With two best and stalwart friends that never left her side long enough for me to get a moment alone…

My voice slows as my heart speeds up.

The rusty wheels in my head suddenly chug along, lubricated by the new fuel slogging around the cogs and gears. 

“Are you sure you’re not just describing my wife?” Wendell jokes and I sputter into my pint. As I’m choking and gasping for sweet oxygen, getting my back patted and having napkins handed to me to clear my beer soaked nostrils it becomes apparent to me why Mrs. Wilkins’ eyes seemed so familiar to me.

“Seems like a special girl.” The barkeep remarks dryly. Apparently he’s seen many a bloke nearly die from inhaling lager in response to a witty remark.

“And this special girl got a name?” I’m prompted. I figure what the hell, it can’t get any worse.

“Granger.” I answer with a crack in my voice. “Hermione Granger.”

Wendell has that look again. Contemplative. Curious. Almost recollective. He drums his fingers along the bar. “God, now why does that sound familiar?” he mutters to himself, almost drowned out by the ruckus of the game and the crowd. Had I not been sitting next to him I wouldn’t have heard.

When the game ends and Wendell’s had one too many, I get behind the wheel and drive us back home. I couldn’t make myself drink anything after my burning baptism by beer, remaining sober as the gravity inducing reality hit me full force in the chest and nearly off my stool. How could I not have recognized the feelings I harbored all this time? Was I merely blinded so much by the lines that had been drawn in the sand that I had developed tunnel vision to everything else when regarding her?

Had she not been a muggleborn….

That’s all it boiled down to. Her damn blood status-which now I knew didn’t mean a damn bit of difference to mine. We both bled red. If there was one of the Golden Trio that I knew would duel me without holding back, it would be her, and she’d be relentless. I knew how Potter worked, we’d faced off often enough over the years but I doubt I’d get an edge of grace from the girl I so ruthlessly tormented for six years in a row.

Course. Now that I’m half a world away and exiled into desolation does this revelation deign to dawn upon me in yet another stone on my back in the sack full I already carry. I know I’ll never see her again and yet I can’t stop thinking about her. I never even got to apologize. Just another stone to weigh me down.

That night after we get Wendell tucked in Mrs. Wilkins comes to see me. As always, she knocks and waits for a response before entering. I always make sure I’m wearing something decent although I’ve learned that being in a tee shirt and boxers is appropriate if I’m in my own room. No need to stand on ceremony.

“I haven’t seen him that sloshed in a while; you two must’ve had fun.”

I nod. “We did. Good game.” I automatically say.

“Oh really? What was the score?” she tests me with an arched brow. She knows I didn’t really pay attention. “It’s good that you got out, experienced life beyond our little farm. You should do it more often. Once a week, or every other week.”

I risk a look at her eyes. Rich warm honey brown eyes. But brown eyes are commonplace, so it’s not so much the color but this indescribable quality born of intelligence and strength and goodness. They certainly are familiar. Just like her auburn waves. It’s like I’m looking at an older version of Her. But there’s no way it could be true. 

“Is something wrong Tom?” she asks.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I just realized something about someone that I’ll never get to express those feelings towards and it hurts.” I rub my chest as if to soothe a stab wound. “Even if I ever…she’d never forgive me…I feel so hollow.”

She tsks and runs her hand through my hair, an action that she’s often done when consoling me that I allow. “It may not seem like it now, but there’s usually a reason we get those sudden revelations. Perhaps this is just step of your atonement, a regret that unfortunately you’ll never entirely shrug off but can still learn from.”

“I’ve wasted so much my life…”

“Now Tom-Drake, look at me. Don’t wallow in despair and let it drag you back down, not when you’ve been making such progress.” Her hands cradled my face, tears starting to pool. “Whatever it is that you’ve done, I doubt you’re the only one ruminating on them. If she’s affected you in this way, then perhaps you’ve done the same.”

“Lot of good that is, she probably does have nightmares of me and my family. She wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.”

“Be that as it may, you’re bonded in your pain. And life has a strange way of introducing pain to us as well as finding the way to overcome it. You’re a brilliant lad, I’m sure you’ll find that way.”

I pray her words ring true as I shuffle into bed, already dreading the dreams that will come.


	6. At The Manor

First thing I do is address a letter to the Weasley clan, in the most passive aggressive way possible, by listing every member of the family that I deem worthy to be on the receiving end of my activities, sans one particular redhead. I can only imagine the family gathered around as either Molly or Arthur holds the parchment and starts reading aloud the names, growing exasperated by the time they reach the end only to realize one son’s name is not among theirs.

I tell them that I’ll be taking residence at Malfoy Manor and working closely with Narcissa on my task and for them to not send the entire Auror Division to bust down her door, that I am not writing this under Imperious or any other kind of duress. For how long I cannot say but I will keep them apprised of any developments.

Naturally, that brings an influx of owls and letters to her doorstep, from each family member-including Ronald-all with similar inquiries or accusations to which I respond with either a polite note back or by burning. He made his opinion quite clear on the matter and in doing so made my opinion of him quite clear. While I would always love him as the dear friend he’s been, I cannot bear the thought of anything more. I hope in time he’ll understand, as his family seems to have gotten the gist pretty quick.

The Malfoy library was as breathtaking as I imagined it would be. I feel like Belle being given the library from the Beast as I step into it for the first time and inhale the delicious scent of old parchment and leather bindings and centuries old ink. Books they have vary from being first editions, signed copies by authors, original texts that were later reproduced for the masses, in several languages, and one of a kind.

Precious. Absolute precious treasures.

Narcissa gives me a tour, which I very much appreciate with silent awe as she walks past bookcase after bookcase and discloses the histories of some of the particular tomes. She may have lost her wand in the final battle but there is still magic in her veins as she wandlessly summons select books into my arms. I lay them out on the study table and assess the titles; Spell Reversals & Repairs, Memory Charms & Other Spells for the Forgetful Caster, Craft of the Mind, and Blood Bonds. The last one naturally had my defenses up.

“I can assure you, none of the books are cursed or required blood to be opened with. Not all blood bonds are bad, though they do fall under the category of dark magic.”

“But how would a blood bond help with a memory charm reversal?”

“They are your parents, therefore of your blood. It may sound dubious but if you were to obtain their blood then you stand a fair chance at forcing the magic deeper into their repressed memories and unlocking them.”

I blinked several times as I try to process that idea. Hadn’t I already done enough to them without having to be so invasive?

“Let’s see if there’s a less dubious route first.” I say, grabbing the first book.

The thing about research is that it is time consuming. It may feel like you’re not getting anywhere for the longest time until you reach a breakthrough. But even if nothing popped right out and said ‘Hey, here’s how to reverse seventeen years’ worth of memories in a snap’ I was still obtaining knowledge that had not been permitted to me in Hogwarts. In fact it was downright insulting how lax the curriculum was in regards to reversing the damage caused by some of the spells we are taught at too young an age.   
No teenager ought to really know how to use Obliviate. Or Sectumsempra. Or be allowed the use of Time Turner. It’s all too dangerous, even in my trusted hands.

Days turn into weeks. Narcissa gives me a proper tour of the manor and grounds. She gives me a verbal history of the family name and the past great Malfoy’s through the centuries-although what is considered great deeds is questionable today-and I can hear the tone of her voice as names she committed to memory in proud pureblood aristocracy now falls flat with the realization of what those wars entailed. It prompts her to change from Malfoy to Black, and she mentions the disowned Andromeda, the sister that fell in love with a Muggle.

I know of Andromeda. She was Nymphadora’s mother and is the grandmother to Teddy Lupin. Poor Teddy, growing up orphaned like his godfather Harry. Both wars took both boys’ parents far too soon. But it gives me an idea that I store for later. I don’t want to push my luck and make a suggestion that could be mistaken as me prodding into family affairs I have no business meddling with. After all, I have no idea of the relationship the two shared and their final words before she was cast away.

Narcissa doesn’t mind answering my questions, which I keep generic for the most part. This conversation could easily come to a grinding halt if she feels so inclined. In a family full of astrological names, I do note that she is a flower. 

“If you had a daughter, what would you have named her?” I ask suddenly, instantly widening my eyes in horror at my brashness and mentally kicking myself for overstepping.  
“Cassandra. Cassiopeia. Polaris.” She lists off. It would seem that she has always had that answer ready, and has been asked it before. There is no offense taken.

“Your parents must’ve thought highly of you at your birth. Giving you the Greek origin meaning "messenger, or earthly". Unless they were just taken in with Shakespeare’s The Winter's Tale.”

“I think it was more along the lines of Shakespeare.” I reply.

“It is a lovely name.” she concedes to my surprise. “One I would imagine any pureblood family bequeathing to their daughter. I had no idea that the Muggles could also be so creative in this day.”

“Oh.” I say, my tone flat. It kinda feels like an insult.

“You misunderstand.” She clarifies with a hand held up to signify me to stop in my tracks. “I meant no offense. It’s just that from what I had known, the Muggles do not usually give such significant names to their offspring. Wizarding families though carry on names every generation or so to honor the ancestor beforehand.”

“The royal families did that too. Far too many Edwards and James’ to keep them all straight.” I counter. I get her point though. Muggle families might transfer an ancestors’ name into the middle name but rarely do you meet a kid these days who has the same name as their father, uncle, grandfather and so on going back five generations.

Weeks turn into a month. I arrived here at the end of June, and now it is the end of July.

Though my days here are calm and peaceful, my nights are often wracked with nightmares. I do my best to keep it to myself as there is one less thing I want to burden my hostess with. I have discovered however, that Tipper and Snuffy are aware and place Draught of Dreamless Sleep on my nightstand every couple of days.

The books are helpful, but only as much as reading the manual does. I still need the actual practice. But where to test my spell work? What to test it on?

“Problem?” the matriarch inquires after I heave a sigh and close the book.

“Yes. My problem is now I need test subjects. But human testing is wrong and immoral and cruel. But I need to work on a human brain, one preferably already damaged by obliviation so I can be sure I’ve actually reversed it.”

I see calculating wheels spin in her mind. With her eyes sober they are shocking with clarity and meticulous planning. I’m beginning to wonder who really wore the robes in the relationship as she assures me she has just the thing before making a graceful exit. Part of me wonders if I should contact Harry and tell him to be on guard, but I’d rather not ruffle the feathers after things have just recently calmed down.

I’ve refused family gatherings and even simple one-on-one dinners with every and all Weasley that has had offered-including Harry although they aren’t married yet-and I tell them in letters that I have made excellent discoveries in my research. That’s about as much as I’m willing to divulge. Ginny has made me her Maid of Honor and wants to get together for planning a wedding due by the end of August. I just don’t know if I have it in me.

“Get your robe dear, we’re off!” Narcissa exclaims suddenly, startling me out of my reprieve.

“I uh…don’t have a robe.” I sheepishly sputter.

“Ah, well then we’ll have to remedy that. Come with me.” she motions me to follow and I’m more than shocked when she stops at Draco’s bedroom rather than her own. “I think one of his older robes shall do.” She says, looking me up and down. “Yes, you’re about the height he was in fifth year.”

She ushers me in and I feel like I’m invading despite the invitation. The room is immaculate of course, masculine without being too much, rich plum colored bedding and a dragon motif carved into the dark wood furniture. There’s an autographed poster of Viktor Krum and I cannot help but giggle at the sight.

Narcissa is rummaging through the ornate wardrobe when she hears my giggle and turns. Her curious head tilt tells me she doesn’t understand. I point to the poster. “I went to Yule Ball with him.”

“Ah, so you’re the girl he spoke of.”

“What?” I blink owlishly.

Sliding hangers aside, Narcissa casually mentions that Draco’s recollections of that night centered more on what others were doing/wearing/dancing with rather than what he did. And how Viktor Krum asked a nobody who easily became the belle of the ball.

“He said that?” Sure, I remember that for once he didn’t have an insult on his tongue but I figured it was merely due to my proximity to Krum and how he didn’t want to risk angering the Bulgarian seeker he so obviously looked up to.

Narcissa cries in triumph as she pulls out a navy blue cloak and holds it up to me. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

There really is no need to protest. The urge to say ‘well he won’t be around to use it’ is almost painful to resist but it takes everything I have to not instigate that reasoning and take the cloak, reveling in its softness. If someone had told me I would one day be wearing a robe belonging to Draco Malfoy I would’ve snorted in disbelief. But here it is, in my hands and just as pristine as it was when it was made. He probably only wore it once or twice. Narcissa resets the hanger as I wrap it around myself, almost with a devilish delight. Oh he would freak out if he ever learned of this.

But it’s the words echoing in my head that brings a little smile to my face.

“He really said that about me?” I ask, just too overwhelmed to process the thought properly. “He never had a kind word for me.”

“As disgraceful as his behavior towards you has been, even he is aware of the ramifications of insulting a witch at a ball.” She states as somewhat a defense. “For him to go so far and claim you were the belle might have been his way to somehow counterbalance that."

I clasp the buttons. “I wish I could’ve heard it from him.” I wistfully sigh. “It would’ve made things far easier that year.”

Narcissa shook her head. “No my dear, that would’ve only made things harder on you, seeing how the years increased your animosity towards another. The path he was set on would’ve never allowed it. That is of course, partly to blame on Lucius and I, raising him in the way we were brought up. Pureblood must never mix the likes of the Muggleborn and all.” She rolled her eyes with a sardonic droll to follow.

“You don’t say that word.” I point out.

“After what Bellatrix did to you, neither did my son. And now it lays permanently imbedded in your skin for the world to see, for others to automatically judge you on.” Mere mention of my scarred arm makes me subconsciously bring it behind my back. “You’ve been undeniably wronged by my family, by my ilk, and were I able I would’ve done something to stop it.”

Tears start to well up and I steel myself to not blink and unleash the torrent.

“But I have never seen a more braver act in my years until that moment, especially from a witch as young as you. Willing to die to protect the Boy-Who-Lived, so that he could then sacrifice himself and defeat the Dark Lord.”

It’s a strange comfort, being praised and even admired by a woman old enough to be my mother, by a woman whose pedigree and breeding made her worlds apart from my own, and to be standing in the bedroom of her son as she pulls me into a hug, running elegant fingers down my hair and beams at me with all the pride I’ve seen in my mother’s own eyes.

Needless to say, it takes us a moment to compose ourselves before we Floo off to St. Mungo’s and I’m quite curious as to what she has in mind. Surely she doesn’t mean to…  
The Welcome Witch greets us like esteemed guests-I suppose in Narcissa’s case she is one-and we are met by a Head Nurse in the prominent lime green robes of the medical staff who escorts us down the halls until we reach the Janus Thickey Ward on the fourth floor, and in Ward 49, I am greeted with the sight of my second year Defense Against Dark Arts professor Gilderoy Lockhart.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Normally I’d feel ashamed of using such language, especially in front of my gracious host, but she understands the severity of my reaction quite well. After all, this man made a mockery of that classroom, endangered Harry on numerous occasions, preened like a peacock and made us focus more on his exploits than the actual bloody curriculum and in the end tried to Obliviate both Ronald and Harry if not for Ron’s defunct wand backfiring.

I am more ashamed that I didn’t see through his charade sooner, that I was reduced to another hormonal fangirl that hung on his every word and I nearly died that bloody year from the Basilisk. 

“As a permanent resident, Mr. Lockhart presents himself as the perfect subject to practice your reversal work.” The Head Nurse supplies, apparently having discussed this with my benefactor and agreeing that this was a proper use of the fraudster as well as for a breakthrough. As she waxes on about the benefits of having him to test spell work on, I cannot tear my eyes away from the man and take in how seven years has changed the man. His once golden curly hair now has streaks of gray at the temples, a happy yet lost look in his eye, and a slouching posture compared to that of the arrogance he once carried himself with.

“What happens if I restore him?” I ask amidst the ladies chatter.

“Why, you’ll have made history-”

I cut the nurse off. “I’m not in it for the fame. I already have enough of that.” I say, holding my hand up. I’m not…well I’m not Gilderoy Lockhart. “What happens to the man once he has regained full memory of all his crimes-do we just let him loose upon Wizarding London once more and risk endangering the community?”

The nurse blinks. Apparently she had not considered my concern for my test subject. “I suppose the Wizengamot would have to take that into account…”

I nod solemnly. “So if I even agree to this barbaric practice of having a human test subject, then I make the breakthrough of the century and reverse complete obliviation, I then run the risk of unleashing the largest serial obliviator in history back into the public unless the court decides to toss him Azkaban. Just trading one prison for another.” I count off.

The whole thought of it makes me sick. How can I do something akin to what he did to plenty and then be the one to inevitably sentence him to that dismal prison? After all the work I did to ensure Draco wouldn’t be and he instead is exiled into the unknown, I know I cannot bear the burden of ruining another man’s life.

But then, I’ll never know if I succeed in my endeavor to rescue my parents from the life I subjected them to. I’ll never know if it’s possible.

I release a shuddering breath as the dilemma weighs upon me. Narcissa senses my inner quandary and excuses us from the presence of both the nurse and patient, taking me to the hallway. “Hermione,” she states firmly, shocking me to my core with the inflection of a mother taking charge as well as being soothing. “He has no family to claim him; no one will argue that what you do is wrong. If you should somehow manage to make him worse than he is at least in the best place to be taken care of. And I will personally see that he receives the proper care.” She takes to cupping my cheek, making me meet her lovely cornflower blue eyes. “And if you succeed, then leave the rest to me as well while you go to Australia and restore your parents.”

This is what I’ve been researching for. What I left the familiar comfort of the Burrow for. What I came to Malfoy manor for. Should my moral compass deter me when I’ve already sacrificed so much time and effort and friendships for this? Regardless of what this man has done and who he’s hurt in the past, he is just a means to an end. 

He could finally claim real fame for being the first person freed of obliviation if I do, I mused with dark humor to myself.

“Alright.” I say. “I’ll do it.”


	7. Music Soothes The Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music:  
> Time Of Your Life by Green Day

Life feels different now that I’ve acknowledged I harbor an attraction to the girl whose life I made miserable. It in no way makes my life easier, but it does lift one small pebble out of the sack of many on my back. At least now I can put a reasoning behind my actions-even if they don’t entirely make sense to me. The Muggles seem to understand it oddly enough, and introduce me to the literature and film adaptation of Pride & Prejudice. I’m floored by the auspicious Mr. Darcy-whose name is even so similar to my own-and his behavior towards the woman he claims to love. I see the strength and ferocity and intelligence in Elizabeth that I can only envision Granger in her place.

~“I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding— certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”~

When I go out to the fields I mentally converse with an imaginary Granger, one willing to sit and hear me out as I spill my proverbial guts with eloquently prosed apologies, confessing all my sins and falling upon my sword-or rather, pitchfork, in one instance-only to be met with a panting border collie with his head cocked to the side, eyes imploring for another scratch behind his ear.

No matter what it is I say, I can never imagine a scenario in which she forgives me.

When I hold my guitar-for it was indeed given to me as a gift-and I pluck absentmindedly and stare off at a spot on the wall, the only songs I can bring myself to play are apologetic ballads, soul searching cries, and self-deprecating lyrical masterpieces that touch the spirit of every teen and young adult in this portion of the 90’s. Whoever decided that the “in” thing was to wallow about how much of a goddamn loser, creep, and misfit we all are was a genius.

The “grunge” genre of music speaks to my soul. I’m suddenly very aware I am not alone in my grief, not if it’s blasting across the wireless and on the telly from half a world away. I don’t even realize how adapt I’ve become to handling the instrument until one day Wendell suggests I bring it to open mic night at the pub. At first I balk, my only audience has been a small herd of sheep and Hamlet the dog. Not that I delude myself into thinking that they’ve never overheard me but they’ve never broached the subject other than the little comment here and there that I seem to be improving.

Monica insists that it’ll be good for my self-esteem, because I do tend to brood. Wendell says that even if I’m not that good the audience will still clap and someone will more than likely buy me a drink. At that I counter with why bothering if a room full of drunks are barely paying attention? So to prove me wrong, we go to an open mic night-sans guitar-and I tentatively sip my lager and chat amicably with his mates and do my best to dodge questions about my girl back home-seriously, what is it about my personal life that is so fascinating to these people?-before the show begins.

Several of the people that amble across the little stage are regulars, so there’s hearty applause even before they do anything, and they do know to carry a tune. One even does something called “stand up” and tells jokes which vary from the everyday ho-hum of life to downright filthy and I am beside myself with peals of laughter. Thank goodness I wasn’t trying to take a drink just then; I might’ve actually drowned in my pint.

I haven’t laughed like this since stepping foot onto this blistering sandbox, and even longer before I arrived. My god, when was the last time I truly laughed? Must’ve been in Fifth Year at least, I certainly did have a sense of entitlement while being on Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad and threw my weight around being a Prefect on top of that.  
Recalling the squad brings the guilt of outing the hidden club Potter, Granger, & Weasley were hosting in the Room of Requirement. Had I known the significance of the D.A. at the time, and what a difference it eventually made, I’d have steered that ugly pink toad and her goons away from it by any means necessary. And yes, I am separating myself from that gang by distinction that my friends were more her goons than mine. They might’ve followed my lead, but if I had suddenly spun around and told them all to stop because we actually would need Dumbledore’s Army, they would’ve turned on me in a second.

So maybe it was more Fourth year that I had truly laughed in joy. Fourth year, oh let’s see, what happened there? The Quidditch World Cup for starters…until the Dark Mark lit up the sky and the Death Eaters started storming the grounds. I remember…I remember shouting to Granger to get out of there-quit flashing your knickers or something along those lines. Knowing Hogwarts would be hosting the Tri-Wizard Tournament, for the first time in two centuries and getting the chance to actually meet Viktor Krum (Merlin, my autographed poster is still in my old bedroom back home…) and then Yule Ball…

No, let’s not revisit that night. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe a little too much firewhiskey in the punch. That’s what it had to be. How else could I have been taken in by the sight? I didn’t even recognize her at first. Oh sure, I knew she was girl but it wasn’t until that night that I realized she was more than that.

She was pretty.

Oh my poor fourteen year old sense of self, what little did you know?

She was a vision.

And she danced with grace, like a princess. She looked like one, on the arm of a worthy prince. Even though she took no interest in the sport he was famous for, and he could barely pronounce her name, they were a striking couple. A real case of opposites attracting. I couldn’t appreciate it then, I wondered if he only asked her because he had such a hard time actually trying to ask in English and she just pitied him, or maybe he’d been dared and she took the chance because no one else would ask, hell, her own so called boyfriend Weasley hadn’t even. What did that say?

His loss. That’s what. At least on that night. Who knows what happened over the course of seventh year while they were out gallivanting through the woods? Or for the return year that no doubt took place for any student who skipped it for obvious reasons? I bet a thousand galleons she was Head Girl, and if Potter wasn’t Head Boy then I’d eat my hat. I bet the magical Golden Trio had the best year of their lives without me around to hurl insults and hexes. And she’s likely with either one of them, probably engaged, possibly working on that little family too.

The depression hit me so hard that I step outside to get some fresh air. I lean my head against the building, vibrating with the hum of electricity and music and jovial atmosphere and cast my eyes skyward. I look for a moment before I realize I’ll never see the Draco constellation while down here, it’s only visible in the Northern Hemisphere, between latitudes +90° and -15° and best seen during July.

I’m unfamiliar with these stars, though the Wilkins have procured a handful of muggle high school books varying on subjects such as History, Art, Science, and Astronomy. One constellation I do recognize down here from my studies is Scorpius, The Scorpion. I see its enormous tail and it is the closest thing I have to resemble the dragon I was named for. Gazing up at the stars reminds me of the past time I shared with my mother during the summer breaks. With so many family members named after stars, galaxies, constellations and nebula it was no wonder that I aced Astronomy class with flying O’s. 

Wendell finds me, sulking with melancholy and asks if I’m ready to go home. I’m more than ready. He drives in silence, the radio on a very low volume-just enough for us to hear it and save ourselves an awkward silence-and just waits. The man has patience that frustrates me because he can out-wait me, knowing I want to talk but just not sure how to start. I was raised to never express weakness, vulnerability, or concern for others. But that seems to be all that I am here. A weak, vulnerable man-child who is permanently stuck on the edge of somehow offending others or making a fool of myself. 

“I think that if you get up there, ignore the fact that you’re being watched, and just play like you when you’re herding the sheep, that you’ll find you’re not alone in how you feel. The others in there, they’ll feel it too.”

It takes me another couple of weeks, to gather my courage as well as mull over the song until I can play it confidently, but I eventually agree. Open mic night isn’t usually Monica’s cup of tea, but she’s there to offer support. I throw back a few shots just to loosen the tension in my shoulders, in my hands, and in my gut before I make my grand debut on the stage of the Drunk Dingo. The crowd is half filled with locals that have come to know me, half filled with out of towners and tourists. I’ll only make half a fool of myself if I’m lucky. Breathing in-like Monica has taught me in her yoga instructed video tapes-and picturing the dimly illuminated bar even darker and empty gives me the fortitude to strum the strings and begin.

“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road  
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go  
So make the best of this test and don't ask why  
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time  
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
I hope you had the time of your life.”

I haven’t even noticed how quiet the room has grown as this next part comes, the section that resonates with me personally:

“So take the photographs and still frames in your mind  
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time  
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial  
For what it's worth it was worth all the while  
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
I hope you had the time of your life.”

I softly croon the last repeating lyrics over and over, all the while in my mind it’s as if I’m saying goodbye to those memories and the people associated with them.

“It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
I hope you had the time of your life  
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right  
I hope you had the time of your life.”

There’s a lull in the air as the spell fades and suddenly the people come to, whether sober or sloshed, they all have awoken to something within themselves that the song has touched. If anyone noticed the part where my trembling hand slipped up, no one says anything as they clap and cheer and whistle and someone upturns a hat and patrons start filling it with loose change and bills.

I even see Monica wipe away a tear. Is it from being proud or did the song upset her?

I mumble my thanks into the mic and shuffle off as the room still cheers, somehow fueled by something in the song-surely it couldn’t have been my shy voice that cracked with emotion halfway through and fumbled on my note?

But apparently it was exactly that, I am informed later on when I’m ready to talk about it, sitting at the dinner table with the Wilkins. It’s not a matter of singing or playing perfectly, sometimes being raw and emotional is exactly what the crowd wants-heaven knows why. Apparently bearing’s one soul is a cathartic release not just for the soul-bearer but for those observing it. So in a way, I’m not only soothing my own wounds but those in my audience as well. A strange symbiotic relationship if you ask for I have in no way asked for anyone to bear their soul to me. I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of information except exploit it.

Well, that’s what Draco Malfoy would, not Tom Felton.

My next night out with Wendell-because this was becoming a weekly thing now-had everyone all abuzz about my so called talent and soulful rendition and they clamored for more. Not that I was exactly eager to hop right back up there and strip myself bare for judgment but it was kind to hear. I told them I was still relatively new to the guitar although I had piano lessons in my childhood. I should’ve kept my mouth shut because believe it or not someone had one of those smaller upright pianos and had it hauled up within a week. The owner had been looking for a reason to get rid of it, long out of use it had been.

I’m dragged over to the rickety old thing and tap a few keys, wincing at the out of tune twangs and set to work retuning it back to its refinement. Course, I’m only currently familiar with either classical pieces or melodies from bands known in the wizarding world, so I have to read up and practice a few of the suggested songs people would want to hear in the bar. Someone procured some sheet music from the local high school and I spend the next few weeks split between being a farmhand and a local tavern pianist. Although, I do get some enjoyment out of utilizing a skill I already had, and can’t help but show off just a bit. At some point, I think it was the barkeeper who did it, but a tip jar is placed on top of the piano and it is always filled every time I play, even if it’s just a little Mozart.

For the first time in a long time, I’m actually proud of myself and can walk into the Drunk Dingo with a smile on my face and shake a hand, clap someone on their shoulder and feel like I’m a part of something rather than hiding in the corner with a barely touched drink in front of me. There are times when I go without Wendell now that I’m considered a local myself. Not that I’ve gone out on the town with the gang of youths around my age, I am in no hurry to get myself in any kind of trouble. I’m well aware of what alcohol induced boys can get themselves into and would rather not have the Wilkins bail me out of jail on top of saving my life. 

The girls on the other hand are entirely different matter. I can’t keep them away. I’m too much of a temptation for those bored with the current population and have been sought after by a few just because I’m new to the area. I do remind them I am taken, but since there’s no ring or not even a picture in my pocket it’s hard to convince them I’m committed. And god, some are far too willing; it wouldn’t even take buying them a drink… But still, I’m not the best bed companion to have. I’ve had my fair share of broom closet snogging and it would be quite degrading to do that here when I’ve come into a certain sense of respect by the older crowd.

I’ve helped a few old gents into their vehicle; I’ve unloaded bales of hay and livestock from the backs of trucks and even helped clean up the Dingo after a row that left the place in shambles. The amount of respect Wendell and Monica have earned in their year before my arrival is considerable, and my actions would reflect upon them if I was caught in the loo with someone’s daughter bent over and moaning what she thinks is my name. Yeah, no thanks.

But alone on lonely nights when I’ve either had a pretty plump pair of tits shoved in my face or a hand placed a little too high on my thigh, I can’t help but let my mind wander and think of a certain brunette in her place. She’d never touch me like that but a guy can dream right? And dream I do. It’s all I have. Like a ghost that haunts me, she lingers in the back of my mind and seeps into my skin on a whim. If it’s not nightmares bathed in blood, then it’s fantasies I know will never be tangible which leave me panting and covered in sweat for a whole other reason entirely.

No rest for the wicked.


	8. Gilderoy Unlocked

After the initial meeting with former Professor Gilderoy Lockhart of Ward 49 and ascertaining that beyond his name the man retained just the basic of knowledge such as knowing he was British, how to eat and dress himself and that he carried a quill at all times and autographed anything remotely signable that he came into contact with-perhaps the muscle memory of thousands of autographs had ingrained itself too deep to be forgotten. 

In essence he was the blank slate I needed. There wasn’t anything worse I could to him except for turning him into a vegetable and if that was the case, he was still in the facility that would care for him. He was a guinea pig in the guise of a human until I either restored him fully or broke what little left there was of his mind.

And to think, he’d rendered so many wizards before to the state he was in now, an ironic twist of fate that he received that punishment by a broken wand. A wand broken when two boys stole a car in their panic to return to school because a house elf hell-bent on protecting Harry had sealed the entrance to Platform 9 ¾ and said danger was unleashed by the hands of the family that was now funding my research into using this blank-slated man in the path to restoring my own parents.

What a tangled web Fate weaved when the likes of Harry, Ronald and I were born.

I had found a spell for total recall, Memento Omnis Praemeditationis, which was a bloody mouthful to say in the first place but also had a complicated wand wave that had me straining and stressing over it for nearly an entire week before I even bothered to step foot back into St. Mungo’s. Honestly, the intricate flick and divot and twist had to be done quick and precisely as well as saying the incantation properly and clearly. Oh how Professor Flitwick would be weeping with pride at seeing my dedication. 

After nearly straining my wrist into immobility I took a break and considered that my time with Narcissa might be coming to an end all too soon, so I decided now was the time to suggest my idea.

We were having tea and cake, making simple small talk about the progress I hoped to achieve when I unceremoniously brought up Andromeda and her grandson Teddy. “Seeing, as you’ve enjoyed my company all this while, I know you’ll be a bit lonely when this is all said and done, and I figured it couldn’t hurt…to well, perhaps reach out to the family you do have left?”

“Rather presumptuous of you, to bring up family affairs you know nothing about.” The woman coolly replied with a teacup held to her lips with poise.

I nodded wholeheartedly. “I know. I’m brash, bossy, and can be brave when the occasion calls. But I gather blood status doesn’t mean what it used to for you if you’ve not only granted my request to aid me, but allowed me to stay and even bequeathed me one of your son’s robes. So I highly doubt you have issue with the sister who married a muggle, lost him and now only has a grandson for company.”

“It’s been twenty years Hermione, how can one even possibly begin mending that bridge?”

“By allowing me to owl her and invite her for tea?” I reply coyly.

I am given a rather smug smile from the woman as a sign of approval. But the invite isn’t immediate, as it takes me a little while to tease Andromeda into the idea of it with assurances that I am not being manipulated and there is no plot to steal the young boy away. Knowing that Draco has been exiled makes her shudder with the fear that her sister could be driven to kidnap the young lad in an attempt to balm a wound that only a mother could feel. But having lost her own daughter, Andromeda also knows the immense loneliness her sister is suffering through. I never imagined myself a mediator between two pureblood sisters torn apart by their decisions made before my birth, but here I am. Stranger things have happened.

So between my studious endeavor of the “recall all” spell and its wandwork and being the correspondence mediator between the Black sisters I slip further away from the Weasley’s and their requests for my company. I can only placate them for so long, but the longer I remain here the harder it is for me to sound convincing that I’m not just avoiding them. I mean, I kinda am-ok mostly just avoiding Ronald-but I’m also making some serious bounds that I simply cannot ignore for a Sunday dinner only to be interrogated by a determined clan of redheads. 

I know that once I Floo into their home they’d ward it off and all but restrain me and at least two of them would sandwich me in the small sofa while another pours tea laced with Veritaserum and the friendly conversation would soon become an interrogation. I know they mean well, but they can be a bit smothering. As long as I respond to letters they have nothing to fear. Harry and Ginny know my writing style well enough if they worry they’re being forged. It’s somewhat sad that I cannot truly trust my friends while I am entrusting my own to someone who could’ve been considered my enemy.

Well, Narcissa never had been my enemy outright. Merely the wife and mother of them. Only guilty by association and that was over a year ago. I daresay I have grown fond of the woman as our conversations have become more personal.

“I had petitioned for Draco to become Head Boy before I found out about his exile.” I told her one day over lunch. Our conversations often circulated back onto him, naturally I suppose.

“Why would you ask the Headmistress to do such a gracious thing?” his mother asks, truly astonished.

“For inter-house unity.” I reply. “Naturally we were the biggest adversaries that would be returning, and if pairing us together in a situation that required us to be civil, responsible, and mature then we could surely influence others to do so. Needless to say, there was a lot of animosity aimed towards any and all Slytherins last year and it took every bit of coaxing I could muster to get Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson to corporate and help the effort along.”

She took a moment to ponder on my intention.

“You would’ve made a wonderful Slytherin.” She remarks, a compliment to my cunning ambition to rectify the once broken school months ahead of the new year. “Shame the Wizengamot did not bother to consider that a viable option for Draco’s redemption.”

I bitterly bite my lip in a withering smile. I tried to help him and failed. I couldn’t even properly repay him the gratitude of his bravery at the pivotal moment of the war and he no doubt considered his banishment the product of my vengeance for all his previous wrongdoings against me.

“You think about him a lot.” Narcissa softly states. “Almost as much as I do.”

I sputter into my tea and hastily wipe my face. “Oh, I mean… well I’m here with you…and I suppose it’s only…nat-”

Narcissa smiles at me as if she’s learned a secret and wants to share it. “Perhaps there is more beneath the surface of the outward claim of dislike you two held for each other.”

My brows furrow. “Huh? Wha…No, there’s certainly no way that he could’ve liked me. He made that clear pretty early on. And I was hardly interested in boys during my years there…I mean, there was always danger lurking around every corner.”

“He insisted that we free our elves, and that I contribute to your elf freedom petition you had in the works before his trial came.” She stated firmly, adamant that I know it was his idea and not hers. “I believe it might’ve been in some vain attempt to possibly paint himself in a positive light beforehand, but more so I believe he wanted to reform, and prove he be worthy of your forgiveness, when he was ready to ask of it.”

“I’m sorry I never bothered to check up with the two of you after your trials. I let my faith in the system blind me into believing that they held your best interests in regards. Though yes, he didn’t get sentenced to Azkaban….I know it isn’t any consolation not knowing where he is either.”

“No.” she solemnly agrees. “It is not. At least a prison-as terrible a place for any young man to be sent to-would be far more preferred than knowing nothing. Not the country, not the city, not even his new name or if he’s even still alive.”

Bile rises up in my throat. I worry about that too. It’s the topmost thought I have when I do end up thinking about him. Is he even still alive? But with the Ministry firmly refusing to divulge any details into his relocation I am just as much in the dark as his poor mother. I have often passed his bedroom and heard the broken down sobs of a woman clinging onto a robe that once graced her son’s shoulders. The once formidable Narcissa Malfoy is now reduced to one of those pitiful parents of the missing like I used to see on Unsolved Mysteries on the telly. 

So when the day comes that Andromeda arrives at the doorstep of Malfoy manor with a healthy robust toddler on her hip, it is my way of giving her comfort in the way that only family can. She needs this as much as Andromeda, for when my conquest of Lockhart’s mind is complete there is no further reason for me to stay, and I would not wish to reopen the wound that I know my presence has somewhat healed.

Their greeting is stiff and cordial at first, with Andromeda unwilling to set the squirming boy down for the longest time until I offer to hold him. Narcissa offers her hands to her sister, beckoning for contact in the least, just to know that she’s not dreaming. It is hesitant and painfully slow, but the two women eventually embrace and then once they do, the tears are in free flow. Not even I can keep it to myself as twenty years of regret and separation melt away in the light of their combined tragic losses. There is no force now that can take them away from each other as they start overlapping each other with pent up apologizes and condolences. 

When at last I’m relieved of my baby holding duty, and sweet little Teddy is passed into Narcissa’s arms, I see a woman torn between being brokenhearted all over again and simultaneously elated at holding her grand-nephew. At seeing her blonde hair he wraps a little hand around a loose tendril and suddenly his once normal brown hair is the same color. The shock almost causes Narcissa to drop him, but I saw that coming and held my arms out and supported hers as she quickly fumbled to regain herself.

“He’s a Metamorphagus, like my beloved Nymphadora.” Andromeda clarifies. “He doesn’t have much control of it currently, but he often does that when introduced to someone new.”

A little cry emits from Narcissa’s lips and I can see her mind so clearly as she pictures Teddy looking like Draco when he was at that age. There’s a moment of blurred serenity and blinding pain that had I not witnessed it I would’ve never believed it possible to express both at the same time. Salt in the wound as well as the healing ointment.

Tea suddenly becomes dinner as the hours pass on between the sisters as Narcissa walks her sister through the manor and tells her that no longer is the House of Malfoy a pureblood supremacist one and that she is now legally head of estate. Andromeda is welcome to visit at any time, any occasion and Teddy will be fully accepted and loved by both his grandmother and aunt. The scene is more than I could’ve hoped for and I cannot help but to write to Harry and tell him the wonderful news, granted that he is the boy’s godfather and has the right to know where the child may be on occasion.

Oh, if only Draco were here to see this….

Hmm, perhaps Narcissa isn’t entirely wrong with her cynical observation of my musings. Perhaps there is a part of me that actually misses the git, or at least how his absence burns a hole in his mother’s heart that pains me to witness all of these months.

But for all my dutiful studying and wrist work, the spell is a hard one to cast and my apprehension leads to a failure in my first attempt to open Lockhart’s mind. I have to tell myself over and over that I’m not hurting him-for even still I hold compassion for those who have wronged me-and there’s no shame in not perfecting this spell on the first try. It’s not even so much of a spell but like a charm, and it isn’t very effective.

When I’ve finally mastered the incantation and wand work in tandem, Gilderoy cocks his head to the side and looks at me curiously, almost as if he recognizes who I am. I doubt someone as vain and ostentatious as him would deign to remember one out of dozens of doting female students from seven years ago. 

“I used to have a dog…Nipper.” He said, as if I had asked him if he ever once had a pet. 

I blink. Could I have done it?

“What color was it?” I ask. Maybe I can verify it in some records of his.

“White, with black patches.” A smile creeps upon his face with fondness. “He had one ear that was always upright and one that flopped over.”

“Oh my god…” I mutter.

But as I prod him further I discover that he has not regained total recall, but merely a portion of it. After all, he accidentally obliviated his whole life and gave himself complete amnesia. He may actually be a harder case to restore than my parents, for I only took myself out of half of their life. They still recall their own childhoods and how they met in high school and later reunited in college while both studying for their doctorates in dentistry. 

With giving them new identities I merely did a slight copy and paste method of replacing their birth names with made up ones so they couldn’t be tied back to me even if they were somehow found in Australia. But everything about them remains the same, and I’m sure they experience a case of déjà vu regularly. Given my fierce determination to protect them, my spell would be undeniably strong and not some run of the mill obliviation that one would cast in a quick fix. I meticulously planned this as a last resort when my subtle hinting in my letters had failed to convince them to at least consider taking a vacation.

I still note this breakthrough in my journal (as I have taken to documenting every step of this arduous process in case I need to backtrack or share my results) and keep the Head Nurse apprised as he may regain more until our next session. I’m going to have to break this up into multiple attempts. Not exactly what I wanted but I’d rather go slow and steady to calculate results than rush his mind with so much that it could backfire into unrepairable memory loss.

Back at the manor I slam my journal shut and rub my eyes. This arduous process is milking me dry of my patience, time, and magic-leaving me restless and irritable as I help this poor sap recall his childhood scrap by scrap. My cantankerous mood spurs Narcissa to surprise me with an equally surprised Harry Potter stepping through the Floo and shaking off his robes while he was assessing the surroundings. After coming to the conclusion that I am not facing mortal peril but merely slow results does he loosen up and offer his arms for that ever comforting hug I know so well.

“God Harry, it’s like death by a thousand cuts.” I sigh, placing down my teacup. “He remembered his dog first. Then his mother’s name and where he lived-all validated, I checked-and then his favorite meal. So what I’ve come to find is that the ‘recall all’ spell doesn’t exactly recall everything like I thought but only the upmost important memories. Things that we ought to know by heart and be able to answer at the drop of a hat.”

“But, you’ve at least made him remember bits of himself.” He pointed out.

I bob my head. “Sadly though, he doesn’t understand why he’s in St. Mungo’s and why he can’t go home.” I sigh with guilt. This was exactly one of the things I was afraid of, that I’d leave him with fragments he couldn’t string together and make his remaining years miserable.

“I’m hoping the next memory is something about Hogwarts. If he remembers anything, like letting loose the Cornish Pixies or even meeting you in the bookstore, I can gladly bounce more tangents off him then. I don’t know any bit of his life beforehand and what I’ve got isn’t exactly helpful.”

“Not true Hermione.” He countered with a confidence that I’m sure he emulated from me. “Every bit helps. You’re helping him-which by the way, Ron is still steaming about-and if you do manage to restore him then he’s out of St. Mungo’s.”

“Ugh, Ron seems to have a sense of entitlement when it comes to the things I do when it doesn’t involved either you or him.” I snip as I snap a biscuit in half. “Like I need his bloody permission to find the means to restoring my parents! Did he just think I was going to be content living at the burrow, helping Molly play house and eventually fall at his feet because we shared one bloody kiss?”

Harry leans back as my tirade increases the volume of my voice with the vehemence I feel about the whole thing. While Harry and Ginny’s whirlwind romance was the talk of the tabloids and mentioned with bated breath by gossipy healers in the corridors of St. Mungo’s, eyes would shift over in my direction with an expectation and disappointed furrow that I didn’t have a ring on my finger and wasn’t on the arm of the third point of the Golden Trio. As if my efforts for the war meant nothing and I was reduced to merely arm candy for Mr. Shiny Auror Weasley and gushing like a simpering pureblood twit in marital bliss.

These two damn fools wouldn’t have freaking survived without me and they both bloody know it.

Harry nervously scratches the nape of his neck. “Well, he’s been getting a lot of attention lately. Sympathy from fangirls who swear they’d be best witch for him and he’s been casually seeing a few in our off time.” He looked and sounded so guilty by admitting this to me. 

“So?” I scoff. “We were never officially together. He can see who he wants.”

“Yeah…I just figured you oughta hear it from me rather than first page of the Prophet when he’s caught mid-snog with yet another blonde.”

I roll my eyes. I never knew what he saw in Lavender other than her tongue. Though I have been raised to never speak ill of the dead, there isn’t any love lost by her passing. She didn’t deserve the death she received but I didn’t cry over her. No, not when the real tragedy was young Collin Creevey or the star-crossed Nymphadora and Remus. Not when I had learned Snape was a double agent abiding by Dumbledore’s wishes. Not dear sweet Sirius whom Harry had so precious little time with. Those were the real tragedies I mourned.

If Ron is sucking the tongue of another blonde it makes no difference to me. His refusal to even verbally support me in my plan spoke how little thought he gave to my wants and needs, and how little he thought of my ability if he believed it couldn’t be undone. Oh I would show him. I would wear myself to the bone and drag my animated corpse right up to his doorstep and shove in his freckled face the literal proof that I managed to restore Gilderoy Lockhart and my parents and make him eat that crow.

The fire to soldier on has been relit and my next visit to St. Mungo’s proves to be fruitful indeed when my ire fuels my determination to make him remember Hogwarts so bad that I push just a little harder than what I should’ve, but it worked. After up righting himself from his fallen position and clamoring for his chair he looks at me and asks if I am one of his students.

Quivering from both elation and exhaustion I nearly break into a wide grin but only manage a closed-lipped smile. “Mr. Lockhart Sir, I do believe we’ve met, some seven years ago when you taught Defense Against the Dark Arts back in ’92.”

“1992? Seven years ago? My time certainly does fly!” he echoes back jovially. “What a year! Did they ever catch who was responsible for the petrifications?”

His question stuns me; he recalled that with such clarity! Oh perhaps this is what the “recall all” meant! That once you recall a specific time you have a near idyllic memory regarding the events of the period involved….

“Why yes, I was one of those petrified.” I answer with what sounds like pride in my voice. Well, I guess I should be proud, not everyone can say they’ve been petrified by a Basilisk and can tell the tale. Though there isn’t much to say. Honestly, just big yellow eyes and then darkness. Not exactly a thriller worth writing a book over.

“Tell me what you remember.” I coax sweetly, pulling up a chair and immediately enchanting my quill to take dictation-not completely unlike the Quick Quote quill that the repugnant Rita Skeeter used to slander my name back in fourth year, but something more reliable-and flash my big brown eyes at him in the way I know worked on every professor, sans Snape. Of course, I’m quite wary of the man, but I play into his ego just to see what happens. What follows is a curious point of view I never considered as he recollects being greatly admired as well as criticized as he floundered his way through the school year, trying to hide behind his ill-achieved fame.

When he gets to the part about taking Ronald’s wand and monologuing about his grandest adventure yet-finding the two boys driven insane by the death of Ginny Weasley-I can feel myself tighten up. As soon as he says the word Obliviate, it hits him like a ton of bricks. His eyes widen to as large as I’ve ever seen on the man, his mouth in the roundest O shape possible, and a soul sucking gasp from his horrified lips is enough to draw the attention of nearby nurses caring for the Longbottom’s and one rushes off to fetch the Head Nurse.

Gilderoy draws his hands up to his face as more memories assault him, like watching a nightmarish train wreck but unable to turn away, tears pooling in his eyes and his breath becomes short pants that I soon realize is him hyperventilating, just in time too as the Healers approach. He’s utterly astonished and disgusted by his previous actions, his face going red as he flails for breath and has to be subdued with calming draughts and taken back to his room.

Thank God I enchanted my quill to dictate all that, I wouldn’t have been able to write it all down. Especially when I later look it over and see that it caught onto little mutterings of his that I had not realized he said while in the thick of it. It would appear that the “recall all” really has lived up to its name, but in the flurried rush at which it came, it is highly overwhelming and alarming for a mind unprepared for a lifetime to come crashing in all at once. 

The work on Lockhart is far from over, but I’ve done it. I’ve unlocked his mind.


	9. Curiosity Killed The Snake

As ho-hum as life is on the little parcel of land where there’s just enough privacy between the rolling hills and fence lines from one neighbor to the next, I find myself oddly content with this slow pace of existence. There’s no rush to do anything except feed Hamlet, tend to the sheep, til the soil and keep the odds and ends from falling apart whenever needed. 

With occasional backyard barbeques and birthday parties and Christmas that I share with the Wilkins I find myself shedding the old scaly dragon hide that was Draco Malfoy and emerging as the quiet introvert Tom that doesn’t mind playing a song for the crowd and staying behind to clean up (mainly because the Wilkins do it) and answer the name so smoothly now that I never even noticed the transition until my name was shouted over the din of the crowd by one of my new…eh, well, friends I guess you’d say, and my neck snapped with my quick reaction.

Cody and Liam, two guys my age with nothing better to do started frequenting the Drunk Dingo after my open mic debut, they heard about how well-received my cover of the Green Day song went and decided to bring their instruments along. Cody was also a guitarist, but he played both the guitar and the bass, Liam was on drums. They wanted to get together and “jam” much to Monica and Wendell’s delight.

Since I didn’t own the piano nor could I tout it around, our “garage band” sessions consisted of us playing more of the alternative rock and grunge and even classic rock (once I figured out the distinction I immediately could see the difference) and Cody was a great instructor on the strings. On songs that he knew by heart he’d take the lead and I’d warm up to the four strings of the bass, finding the lower mellow tunes somewhat soothing really. 

The guys wanted to know all about the proper English boy from Wiltshire that had dropped everything and came to Australia so I laid it all out. I told them what I had told the Wilkins; yes I grew up in a privileged home but I as raised with outdated racist beliefs which led me to follow my father’s lead into a gang that ended up killing some innocent people. No I never killed anyone outright but I played a part in letting it happen, so I was just as guilty. At the last pivotal moment I deflected and turned in “states evidence” and took a plea deal, leaving the country. 

“Man, that’s hard. Leaving it all behind.” Liam said, lighting a cigarette. “You don’t even write back home?”

I shook my head. “It’s best I’m not involved with any of them anymore. Making my own choices for once, it’s liberating and also scary as hell.”

Cody snorted. “Welcome to the club.” He plucked the cigarette from Liam, hit it, and then offered it to me.

“I don’t smoke.” I said.

He shrugged like it was no big deal and handed it back to Liam, who just barely gripped it with his lips as he fiddled with his cymbal stand without ever stopping in his task. I could tell they were close if they could just move around each other like that. I never had that with Crabbe and Goyle-obviously, those were too stupid to have a lengthy conversation with-nor did I have it with Blaise and Theo. Too busy wracked with the heavy burden I had in Sixth to really enjoy life…

That fucking war. It stole the last remnants of childhood and teenhood any of us had. We grew a lifetime in the span of little over a year.

It couldn’t be avoided for too long, but it did take longer than I had given them before they started asking if I fancied any of the local girls and needed a good word put in for me. When I told them I had a special one back home they wanted details-and not just the basic ones, no sir, they wanted the real details. Cup size and favorite type of knickers and if she was a screamer. Good grief. I honestly couldn’t even say I knew Granger’s cup size, though I noticed she had filled out considerably when giving testimony at my and mother’s trials. 

Always impeccably dressed, professional to the nines with unflattering garments as if she wanted to hide her body and not acknowledge the curves she’d been blessed with. That last day I saw her had given me more bodily knowledge than all the years previous, when she had a tight pencil skirt that hugged her arse so well it looked painted on. With a V-neck blouse that showed just the barest of flesh between her collar bones, I could watch how her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She stood in high heels, giving her just the few inches of height needed for her presence to match her personality, and her glorious mane wrapped up in a smooth bun with expertly loose curls hanging behind her ears and down her neck. It made me think of Yule Ball all over again. Her back was as straight as an arrow, her calves well defined, and she held her head up with every word spoken, meeting the eyes of the judge panel. Oh wouldn’t McGonagall be proud.

But I’d never held her. I wouldn’t know how soft and plush she would feel. I wouldn’t know the secret places that once touched would ignite her blood and destroy her composure. 

I knew Pansy’s. Her cup size, her plushness, her secret spots and preferred kinks. But I couldn’t copy and paste Granger’s face over hers and pretend I felt the same. Not only was that wholly wrong to do to Pansy, but to Hermione’s memory as well. They were as different as night and day, the moon and the sun, like oil and water.

So I fessed up to the guys. I’ve never so much as held this girls’ hand let alone kissed her or anything. No, I was the entitled prat that bullied her relentlessly through our school years. She was never mine.

“Aww that is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard mate.” Cody said with a shake of his dark hair, plucking the D chord. We had been rehearsing a song by the country’s darling Natalie Imbruglia when he needed to tighten it up. “But it’s no wonder you sing those songs so well. You’re thinking of her, aren’t ya?”

I lean my head back against the dingy couch and roll the bottle of beer between my fingers. “All the time.”

“You need to get laid.”

“No.” I immediately say. “I’m hardly boyfriend material.”

“I said laid dude, not hitched.” He clarified. “Big fucking difference. You don’t need to commit for a one nighter.”

Liam stopped twirling his drumsticks. “Oi, if he gets laid he might just start singing a different tune. Aren’t we going for that broody bad boy thing with all the Linkin Park, Bush, and Green Day bit?”

Cody shrugged. “Ok fine, be the celibate monk if it makes you feel better. More sheilas for us.” He winked.

I roll my eyes and take another swig of my beer. For a moment, I almost feel like I could be at Hogwarts, down in the Slytherin common room, chatting with fellow prats like me. If I just close my eyes, I can almost see it like it was yesterday instead of years.

Having officially read every bloody book in their house, helped fixed every little newfangled gadget that I’m sure Arthur Weasley would’ve wept tears of joy at just holding, and moved furniture aside for Monica to clean behind, I am bored. And boredom does not bode well for me. For once, I don’t want to play guitar or read more sheet music for the piano or watch another Disney film. I’m itching for a mystery, a little adventure, so I pull at the cord in the hallway to lower the attic entrance stairs and meander my way up.  
There’s still boxes in here that haven’t been touched since the Wilkins moved in, and they were here a whole year before they found me. I guess they always figured they get to it but got caught up with the demands of raising a half a dozen sheep and being more self-reliant off the land to really notice the amount of dust accumulating on these. Oh if only I had my wand, this room would be spotless in a jiffy. But I anticipated this, having brought cleaning rags and a little sweeping brush and dustbin. 

Mother always said idle hands made for trouble. How prophetic.

So as I settle in, wiping away dust and curiously opening up boxes I find a collection of Shakespearean novels, dentistry awards and artwork from children displaying happy smiles with rainbows and disturbing flying teeth, old jerseys and jumpers from their university days and several models of mouths, a baby blanket in the shade of periwinkle-for how will I ever forget that color?-and a handmade ragdoll with brown yarn for hair with buttons for eyes and dots across its face to represent freckles, I start getting this odd sensation tingling down my spine, almost like I’m being watched, like there’s something calling to me.

In the corner of my eye, I see a stack of three boxes that I could’ve sworn were not there a moment ago, and how being a wizard I should’ve been able to detect the hint of magic in the air but I guess living a completely Muggle existence has dulled my senses just enough so that I couldn’t even detect a simple Notice-Me-Not charm. Not until my mind had temporarily flashbacked to Yule, it was like a chill caressing my neck in the stuffy space, and then the charm had been deactivated.

Each of the boxes reads: For When You Remember.

What an odd thing to write on boxes stored away in the attic. Surely if you wanted to remember, you’d keep them where they would be easily seen and be accessed. But there they were, beckoning to me like the giant ruby calling to the monkey Abu, like Aurora reaching out for the spindle, like the trance Belle is under when she sees the enchanted rose.

Geez, I’ve been watching too many Disney films as of late.

I grab the first box, pry open the flaps and cough as stale air and dust flutter for a moment, and pull out a photo album. It chronologically details the path of a happy couple in their youth, dating and smiling at the camera no matter what they’re doing. In swimsuits, in snow, dressed up in costumes for Halloween or sharing gifts for Christmas, a wedding with a blushing bride and handsome groom, the elated face of that woman holding a grainy black and white picture with the caption “Pregnant!” underneath. The steady growth of the woman’s belly as the silly husband holds up various fruits to her protruding belly as if to measure and compare, the final one being a bright orange pumpkin. And then there they are, a little family of three, holding a tiny bundle of pink with a little scrunched up face.

Looking at the last picture, it dawns on me. These are the Wilkins unless someone has done quite the clever job of photographing their doppelgangers. But they don’t have any children…

I pick up another photo album, this one pastel pink with ribbons decorating the cover with “Our Baby Girl” across it. The first page hits me like a tidal wave.

Hermione Jean Granger. Born September 19th, 1979.

In the northern London suburb of Hampstead, Jeanette Anne-Marie Granger and William Robert Granger welcome home their infant daughter.

My hands shake so badly that I drop the book. It can’t be. It just bloody can’t be. There’s no way it’s possible. How is it possible? What the hell did I just stumble into? Have I been dead all this time and am just living in the hell of my own creation? My stomach plummets and I feel nauseous, but I haven’t eaten in a couple hours so there’s nothing for me regurgitate. I flail my hands towards the box and grab at random, pulling more items out that all pertain to a particularly intelligent brunette girl who had no idea she was a witch as she grew up being exemplary in her academics with little awards and Book It buttons and medals in her name, for being the best and brightest.

Like a man possessed I just keep reaching in, I just keep seeing more. Pictures, mementos, craft projects, cherished baby clothes and a few little toys. A music box and a Halloween costume (a witch of course) and then there it is.

Her Hogwarts Acceptance letter.

My blood freezes in my veins, my throat constricts and I’m light-headed. The air is too hot, too thick, cloying and choking me like a vaporous poison as I sit with some Andrew Lloyd Weber’s records in one hand and a brunette haired Sweet 16 doll in the other, with the severity of the situation dawning on me like a crushing weight. No wonder they left Britain in the summer of ’96. No wonder they reminded me so much of Granger since day one. No bloody wonder they have those moments where it’s like they remembered a stray thought…..

She obliviated them.

Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of her Age, foresaw the peril better than any prophecy babbled by Sybil Trelawney and took the preemptive measure to secure her parent’s safety by erasing herself from their mind, changing their names, and sending them off to the furthest place she could think of before setting off on a dangerous mission to evade capture and protect Harry so that he could eventually kill Voldemort.

I’m flabbergasted. Struck in awe. Dumbfounded beyond comprehension.

And then I end up exiled here. Near death. Rescued and saved by the one couple on the entire planet whose forgiveness I have no right seeking. The very people who should’ve let me die and kept on their merry way ending up saving the life of their daughter’s schoolyard bully.

Before I know it, I’m thundering down the rickety wooden pull-down ladder steps and barreling through the house, slamming open the door and dashing off into the afternoon sun, Hamlet chasing after me thinking we’re off for a good race, with my chest feeling like it might explode with every heaving breath. I just keep running, running until my legs burn from exhaustion and I all but pass out mid-breath once I stop, falling to my knees, clutching wisps of grass and burying my face in the dirt, heaving up nothing as tears light my eyes on fire.

Hamlet paws at me, lays on his belly and whimpers, having never seen me so distraught in all my time here. I just cry and cry. There is nothing I know of to describe the maelstrom of emotions in my mind. I am just merely broken-rebroken-and wallow into numbness by the time Wendell-or should I say, William-finds me, with help from Hamlet who had been smart enough to run off and lead him back to me.

“Tom! Tom? What’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling down beside me.

It had been a while since my last night terror; it had been a good expanse of time since my last wave of depression, so naturally the man is concerned. I’ve all but exhausted myself into being a comatose mute, listless as Wendell brings me to my feet and shuffles me into the car and drives the length back. I hadn’t realized how far I’d actually gone but if I had attempted to walk back I wouldn’t have made it until well after sunset.

Seeing as it’s nearly dusk now.

All I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep, wake up and find that this has been the most disturbing of my nightmares to date, but no such luck. No, when have I ever been blessed with true luck? They take me to the kitchen, dinner already started on as well as a kettle, and they sit me at the table. I barely know how to begin. I have no idea what to say to two people who have been obliviated for their own protection. What happens if I make them remember Her? It’s not like they’ll let me stay with them any longer, or remain living down here. No, they’ll be making calls and inquiries and secure themselves a way to get back to merry old England as soon as possible and leave me here to rot.

“Tom, talk to us.”

“My name is not fucking Tom and you know it.” I snap, the harshest I’ve ever spoken to them. “And I can’t stay here any longer. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Now wait a minute, what happened?” Wendell demands, putting some authority into his tone. 

“I told you, I don’t deserve your kindness, your forgiveness, anything. You wanna know? Really? I’m the arsehole who stood by and watched a girl be tortured in my own home, the same girl I bullied ruthlessly in school….and that girl…is your daughter. You two…you don’t remember, but you are. Hermione Jean Granger.” I say, realizing it’s the first time I’ve ever said her full name. I rise to my feet, searching their faces as they mull the name over in their curious minds.

“How could we forget we have a daughter?” Monica says. “Surely I of all people would remember that.” A nervous laugh escapes her lips. 

“And why tell us this now? I mean, we’re the Wilkins, not…the Grangers…” Wendell said, tilting his head and wincing as if he’d been struck with a quick migraine. 

I shouldn’t say anything further; I don’t know what will happen to them if I keep this up. But they’re persistent and damned if I don’t feel obligated to answer their concerning questions. But it isn’t an easy conversation to have. Especially since the charm had been placed on the boxes to not be noticed until they remembered her and then would learn the truth. But it was my doing, my damn weakened mind so easily triggered into conjuring up Her that I undid her spell before these two either came to on their own or she returned for them.

My body stiffened rigidly.

I never even thought about it. That the charmed boxes might also have some sort of alarm that would register back to her and she would come running. Which meant that if that was true, Granger herself would be here in no less than a day. And I am the last person she would want to see with her mother and father.

“You didn’t…go up to the attic?” I ask with a wavering voice.

Monica shook her head. “I called for you and after realizing neither you or Hamlet were inside, I just pushed up the ladder. Hamlet came running back in a right state so Wendell got the car and went after him. I don’t like heights all that much so I don’t venture up there.”

Doesn’t like heights? Neither did a certain little witch who couldn’t command her broom in first year….

Fuck.

“Ok, I know this doesn’t make any sense but I have proof. It’s in the attic.” I tell them. No point in keeping it hidden now, not when the Hurricane that is Hermione Granger could literally show up at any minute and expect her parents to remember her. I lead them to the hall and pull the cord once more. The ladder gives an eerie creak as it slowly descends and I swallow the lump that has lodged in my throat.

Gathering what could be considered some Gryffindor courage; I ascend the steps and find the little room exactly as I left it. I hastily grab the loose items and stuff them back into the box I opened, handing it down first. “There’s two more, but I didn’t open them. Do you want them too?” I ask over my shoulder. 

“Might as well.” Wendell replies, taking the second box and handing it off to his wife before accepting the third as I descend, pulling up the ladder and closing the hatch in my exit. Seeing as these are not exactly tiny nor light, we take the boxes to the living room. Wendell and Monica take the couch and I take the armchair, pulling up the pre-opened box and handing them the first photo album I had touched.

They recognized themselves, which was good, these memories were still intact, as they murmured little moments to each other while flipping through pages, until that single most important image she held in her hand, that little colorless abstract unidentifiable thing that claimed she had a life growing inside her. The following chapter chronologging her belly bumps had her wide eyed in awe. She could clearly see this was her face, wearing clothes she vaguely recalled, but not understanding why her body was changing if she never remembered having a child.

The final picture of them holding the baby girl brought gasps and tears.

They were happy. A little family. A beautiful mother. A handsome father. And an adorable pink faced miniature replica bundled in a blanket, content and safe in the arms of her mother. I handed over the second photo album, and the process repeated as they took in this detailed account of a little girl they obviously cared for as they charted her growth, her teeth, and the little snippet of curly hair taped in place on the page. So similar to Monica’s own, just more pronounced.

I had always wondered where she got that wild mane of riotous curls.

“Mione.” Wendell said, snapping his fingers. “It’s not your nickname dear; it was hers…because she couldn’t…” he struggled with the thought, “…her front teeth…”

I watch as the memory slips from his fingers, the sentence incomplete, fragmented just like what he had in his mind. Almost, but not quite strong enough to remain. It was so painful, not knowing how to help. At least they weren’t in complete denial, throwing the objects and me out along with them.

“How could this happen?” she asked. “It would be impossible for the both of us to have amnesia and forget exactly the same thing. I doubt even the world’s best hypnotist couldn’t make two people forget their only child.”

As I’m pondering deeply on breaking the Code of Secrecy in order to explain to these poor people who they really are, my eyes wander over to the telly and the library of VHS tapes sitting in the entertainment unit. Absentmindedly I scan over the list of titles, wondering if there’s a similarity between a certain film and the situation that might make things easier-at least to them. That’s when I see it. It came out during seventh year and they bought it when it was on the market for home viewing: Men In Black.

As they were fans of the older, mature star that is Tommy Lee Jones, they were curious to see him in a role about a secret service that hid aliens from the main population of every day Muggles. One key factor to keeping this secret was a tool he used: The Neurolizer. 

I scramble over to the VCR and immediately pop it in to their befuddlement, and grab the remote control and fast forward through all the previews and the introductory credits, and through much of the first scene until I get to the part where Agent K shoots Mikey the alien. “This.” I say, pointing to the screen as the man in the black suit holds up a silver rod and flashes the gathered up patrol officers, then starts rattling off something about a gas line explosion, and they all believe it.

“Are you suggesting that a secret agent came and purposely erased our…daughter” the word is still foreign on his tongue, “from our memory and sent us to live here?” his voice is incredulous, like he’s holding back a laugh from the absurdity of it all.

“Not a secret agent, but Her.” I respond. “She did it, to protect you two because what was happening at the time. If you two had been found you would’ve been murdered in order to flush her out. She was on the run, protecting someone pivotal in order to put an end to it all.”

I could never have done that. Hell, I hadn’t even been able to kill Dumbledore, disarmed and weakened as he was, a sitting goose that let me come to just the brink of murder. That alone showed just how different we were in our tactics. Her sacrifice and my cowardly compliance. I shudder to think what would’ve happened had we faced off, if I had been part of the search party with the Snatchers, if we had crossed paths in the courtyard during the Final Battle. She wouldn’t have hesitated. She was firm in her resolve to come out alive just for war to end, and would’ve gladly laid her life on the line like Potter did.

I didn’t think it was possible for me to respect her more than I already did, but seeing as these two beautiful people were so loving and understanding and forgiving, they were worth saving. And they contemplated my words, looking at each other for reassurance, back at me for clarification, and then at the items they held which undeniably proved that there was a missing component to their lives.

That night I finish making dinner, it might as well be my last one with them, so I figure I owe the small gesture. And given how rattled both are, I doubt either could’ve handled the task without burning the kitchen down. We went through the last two boxes, finding diaries and beloved classic novels that were personally inscribed to her, preserved flowers in a glass dome, and a thick bundle of letters and cards. Everything she saved was personal and precious, things she would want to hold onto and look back fondly on in her later years, things worth storing away when she disposed of everything else, all clothing and furniture and whatever else she had.

She condensed her life down to three boxes. All proof of her existence summed up in an armload of everyday items. Even her issued ID card was in here. She dared not carry it with her in the off chance she was ever found. Absolutely nothing left to chance. How lonely she must’ve been, without so much as a single picture of her parents to gaze upon when it seemed that all was lost and any meager scrap would’ve been enough to give her hope to hold onto. How strong she had to have been, all the time, keeping Potter and Weasley alive and on track and one step ahead of the Death Eaters hunting for them. The endurance of camping out in the wilderness, freezing most of the time, surviving off rations of food and river water…I wouldn’t have lasted. Hell, I barely lasted here.

I’m in my room after clearing the table and washing the dinner dishes. I certainly wouldn’t want my departure tainted with a mess they have to deal with.

“Drake.” Monica calls to me. After my outburst about my false name, the two took to addressing me with my natural given nickname. I couldn’t answer to Draco anymore, but I certainly wasn’t nice guy Tom either. “Please hear me out.”

I braced myself.

“We still want you to stay.” She held up a hand when I opened my mouth to protest. “You’re the only one who knows anything about this young woman, and the actions taken. Everything’s a blur right now, like I am almost able to see it, but there’s this fog preventing me from grasping it fully. Wendell and I, well, we’ve grown fond of you and wouldn’t want you to succumb back to that state in which we found you. So please, until the situation changes, don’t leave. You’re the only thing we’ve got in order to make any sense of this, and it could take some time before we remember anything.”

“You might not remember anything. Ever. That’s the point of it.” I say back.

“True as that may be, we’ve talked it over and still want you to stay.” Her voice was soft and pleading, promising to not be judgmental and angry in their newfound confusion and world-shattering revelation that I’d unceremoniously dumped onto them. All the more reason for me to not receive their forgiveness and generosity but in all honestly, I had nowhere to go if I packed up and left this very minute. Being here a year and a half had made me compliant and too comfortable to think of any other options despite the lingering truth that it was all temporary.

“She may not feel the same…” I warn, knowing the extent of the wrath the petite witch could wrought upon the unfortunate who crossed her. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Monica assured me.

It was her parting words for the night, leaving me to drown in the rising surge of tidal emotions, everything from relief to grief and in between, all over again but on a much deeper scale than before. Before I knew for certain who these people were and not just the way they reminded me of the girl I’d so wronged. And the fact that I’d upturned their worldview and made them doubt everything they’d ever known about the world and themselves. I doubt that’s a forgivable offense. After all, ignorance is bliss.

Just as my ignorance was until about twelve hours ago.

But noooo, I just had to itch for trouble didn’t I? 

Just had to slither my way into something I had no right being involved with and trip the snare trap around myself. I was too involved now to leave, too heavily invested with the past year of these people’s lives to just up and go because of my foolish mistake. Just like the Ouroboros, a glutton for punishment, I have in the figurative sense, just devoured my own tail and brought about my own end.


	10. Something Borrowed

In the time before I first went to St. Mungo’s and started working on Mr. Lockhart, I had gladly counted my days at Malfoy Manor in an effort to catalog my arduous process into my research and for later reference. Now that I had successfully freed the block on his hippocampus, the neo-cortex and the amygdala, his memories were coming back in a steady stream. I no longer had to press the Memento Omnis Praemeditationis upon him any longer.

But the results were a mixed emotional response as the man recalled the horrors he’d brought down not only on other refined wizards but on innocent children. Everything he’d been renowned for was a sham, every great deed to his name a lie, and he was more or less reduced to being used as a derogatory term in the way that Muggles do with Albert Einstein. In retrospect, I realized this might happen but I had to squash that sympathy aside in order to continue my work.

He was under constant supervision, not only to note when more memories came to him, but also to record his pattern of behavior and see if he might be up to a new scheme for charming his way out of the ward. It would appear though, that he was genuinely contrite for his criminal deeds and wanted to write letters of apology to the families of the men he’d erased their memories of.

That was out of my jurisdiction, in fact, everything about him now was except for organizing my notes for the book I intended to write on this whole endeavor, believing that there was far too little on the subject and my breakthrough might someday be of service to someone else. I hadn’t yet assigned myself to a job within the wizarding community although my name was highly sought after by several sources from within the Ministry-everything from curse breaking to stepping up for the role of Minister of Magic one day, from journalists who unlike Skeeter, were dedicated to their craft and delved into research and fact checking, and even teaching positions at Hogwarts and in Beauxbatons should I be willing to relocate.

The offers were all tempting but I wanted to secure my parents first, then bury myself headlong into a career that didn’t involve me chasing down dark wizards or werewolves. I wanted normal. Normal was going to college and starting as an intern, working my way the corporate ladder, earning my position rather than having the red carpet laid out for me merely for my name and fame. Normal was meeting up with friends at a café for lunch and going into a bookstore every Sunday for a new read. Normal was bumping into a guy and spilling my coffee or splashing him with a rain puddle, fumbling an apology and laughing, then ending up chatting with that feeling that I’ve known him far longer than just this first encounter and him asking me out to dinner. Normal was dating and making out on the couch during a movie we should be watching, popcorn forgotten as we fall into each other. Normal was having an argument and getting so heated up we just passionately smash into each other and every wall along the way to the bedroom.

Ok, so maybe I was letting a lifetime of muggle romance films influence my expectations but damnit, I wanted it.

Ron had merely been an infatuation born of proximity and several years’ worth of life and death situations. Harry, while also being in the same proximity and situations had always been like a brother to me. I still would’ve gladly attended the Yule Ball with him had he asked me, but I doubt it would’ve led to anything further than a parting kiss on the cheek when the night was through. Viktor, while older and foreign and a Quidditch jock through and through had been a wonderful example of what could be when I finally decided to put myself out there. He’d been a gentleman and took no liberties with me, understanding that I was still a minor and quite shy, so our kiss under the mistletoe had been poetically sweet. Everything a girls’ first kiss had ought to be.

Word of Harry and Ginny’s upcoming wedding had exploded over the papers gossip overnight, and even the ever so poised and prestigious Black sisters couldn’t help but giggle like schoolgirls over the very subject. As I sat with them having tea, watching Teddy play with a few house elves, I felt myself ruminating over all my misadventures with romance and sighing. Even the Slughorn Christmas party was a bust, my poor judgement with choosing Cormac McLaggen like salt in the wound. Not that I was going to leap into the well-built arms of any Quidditch player and let them snog the daylights out of me, but I at least wanted to see what the fuss was all about. And I had been disappointed with the results to say the least.

Ginny had a plethora of experience on me, one thing she could lord over my head that I would actually feel embarrassment over having gotten plenty of practice with Dean Thomas and Michael Corner before finally landing Harry. And he’d had his runabout with Cho Chang. They held no remaining feelings for their exs, and nothing was left to doubt between them. They were finally ready to be together. Moving forward into that next phase of life. Moving ahead of me.

Not that I was jealous. I didn’t have anyone to be in competition with.

I hadn’t realized I was being addressed until a touch on my arm brought me back. Befuddled I apologized for my lapse in manners and gave a vague response to the question. But I was truly happy for them. If anyone deserved happiness it was Harry. He deserved it. 

“Aren’t you the Maid of Honor?”

I nodded. I been pathetically lax in my MOH duties and hadn’t helped Ginny pick a single thing from the dress to the bouquet to the meal plan…Too busy buried in the library of the wealthiest pureblood family in Britain and playing God with a man’s broken mind to help out my best friend. Now that they’d gone public everyone was clamoring for interviews to get the scoop on the guest list to the venue. It would be the wizarding wedding of the century.

“Tell them they can have it here.” Narcissa declared suddenly. Perhaps time with me had rubbed some of my brashness off on her, as well as my generosity. It took me a second to process the request before she started listing the pros. “This property can well hold up to a thousand guests easily. Everyone from the uppercrusts to the house elves they want to invite, let them, there is room. The venue is beautiful, inside and out. We can have it outside over by the lake, they can use the ballroom, and anyone too drunk to apparate out of here can take a guest room for the night. It can be my gift to them.”

“As I live and breathe, Narcissa Malfoy being a philanthropist?” her sister teased. “Better let me bring this lovely notion up to him the next time I visit. Which I’m due for in but a few days’ time. Especially with Harry holding Teddy, he will be hard pressed to say no.”

“How Slytherin of you dear sis.” Narcissa chortled with a gleam. Neither one needed to mention how well hosting the event would also get the Malfoy name out of the gutter and back into polite society, as if it really needed to be said.

I tagged along with Andromeda for that visit, because while she worked Harry I would work Ginny, greasing the Potter’s wheel with my infallible wisdom and logic. There were so many pros to the cons that there was no way I could fail in convincing them, even dragging Molly and Arthur over to my side with the key ingredient: they didn’t have to pay a thing. Andromeda used the guilt trip of Narcissa wanting to repay for her husband’s and son’s sins, not to mention her gratitude in saving his life from the fiendfire, really tugging hard at Harry’s heartstrings.

We were a diabolical team, knowing exactly which screws to turn and just how hard to press. Ron was easily won over with the prospect of the mouthwatering buffet that would be provided even though he groused about it still being from any Malfoy. I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue but let him come to his own conclusion as along as it aligned with mine. George practically salivated at the idea of using Malfoy Manor to host his firework display-knowing how much that would rake in customers-again, I did not care how they came to the conclusion as long as they were on my side and helped pull the hesitant bride and groom until it had all but been decided for them.

Caving into the peer pressure, smiling at each other sympathetically, linking hands, they agreed to a house rattling with cheers. Splendid. Now Narcissa had a project she could sink her teeth into and throw galleons without feeling like she was being used. The manor suddenly became wedding headquarters for the mother of the bride and bride-to-be as they were given access to the Floo and arrived to the welcoming arms of a very pleased and proud Narcissa Malfoy.

“Oh, I only wish I had Lucius here to assist dear Harry with everything he’ll need to know from a former young groom himself, but we shall make do.” She promised, as there really weren’t very many father-like figures Harry had to give him marital advice other than Arthur Weasley. Or Bill. Handing Ginny off to Narcissa was surprisingly easy once the two had been formally introduced and Aunt Andromeda was there to act as a mediator (because I certainly wasn’t going to do that gain) and even offered to loan her a piece from her private jewelry collection to wear on the special day. Ginny had never really been given the chance to grow up a girly girl, not with six older brothers and a poor wizard’s budget to feed them all on. She’d never had pretty dresses or precious stones or even shiny Mary-Janes until she was on her way to Hogwarts, and even those had been on sale.

Needless to say, Ginny squealed with unabashed girlish glee at the glittering assembly before her, trembling with shocked joy at a collection worth more galleons than her family would see in three generations. Naturally, that meant the paparazzi would be notified so the bride would be fantastically photographed for everyone’s viewing pleasure, donning Lady Malfoy pieces for the public to salivate over. Let her look every inch the princess she could be, underneath I knew she was a rough and tough Quidditch chaser that could handle going toe-to-toe against her older brothers and husband in family friendly teams.

Like a ghost, I hung back but made my appearances, but I was putting on airs just to show support. Every now and then I’d catch a sympathetic glance from Molly, trying to use her motherly Jedi mind tricks to get me to talk to Ron again as well as trying to get us paired up as often as possible, seeing as he was Best Man. Go figure, but honestly, who else had been Harry’s best man for the better part of seven hellish years? So I endured the awkward measuring and color selection, making sure we were well matched, practicing our roles in mock ceremony set ups, and posing for a copious amount of photos.

I would flinch every time he’d pull me closer, at the behest of the photographer, as if we were a damn couple planning our nuptials and frankly it was getting under my skin. I’d seen the latest edition of The Prophet with him arm around another dumb blonde just two weeks prior. I wasn’t fooled. But he was under a different impression entirely, believing all this talk of wedded bliss might get me to see him in a different light.

He was sorely mistaken after an ill-fated attempt to kiss me, murmuring some half-arsed apology now that word on Lockhart’s condition had gotten around. So yeah, he was sorry he doubted me but that didn’t right the previous wrongs.

“Oh come on, we’ve been through worse, we can overcome this.” He stated matter-of-factly.

“The fact that we’ve been through worse is why you think it’s now perfectly acceptable to be a thick-headed layabout who cares more for his reputation than my feelings!” I push away from him with a fury building up in my chest. Just how dare he? “You told me to disregard the task of restoring my parents because it didn’t matter that they were unaware of everything, that it was better for them like they were than even to believe it possible for me to undo it! Just HOW could you be so crass, when you wax poetic on the importance of family and mourned your brother, but you so easily brushed mine aside?”

He was dumbfounded, grasping at the words he didn’t know how to use to somehow try to make sense of them and twist them into his defense.

“No Ronald. You drew your line in the sand that day, and I was on the other side of it. There is no Us and there won’t be. And if you can’t keep your hands to yourself them you will lose them.”

I turn and run from the tea room, blinded by tears and pushing pass milling family members and staff in a desperate bid to escape. He knew where my guest room was, since he’d been here often enough, and I didn’t want to be followed, so I ran to one place I knew he wouldn’t follow: Draco’s Bedroom.

Once inside, I locked the door and threw up a silencing charm so I could openly sob my broken hearted woes in privacy. Wearing a flamboyant bespoke MOH dress that I knew Narcissa would skin me alive for if I ruined, I turned to the wardrobe and flung open the doors, watching the extension charm activate and stretch into what seemed like a mile long corridor of clothing. I had to blink back my tears and take in the scope of the clothing that could dress an army. Not entirely too surprised, but still, I wasn’t expecting the enormity of the selection, granted that I’d mainly seen him in school uniforms and when the occasion called, the new set of dress robes or tailor fitted suits. Remembering Narcissa said that I currently am the height he was in fifth year when she selected the navy blue robe, I am pleased to see an actual method to the madness, finding sections of clothing grouped together by year. Such an easy way to maintain the measurements then. So for the section marked 1994-95 I grab a lush green robe off a hanger, hit with a scent of musky pine and clove.

OhMyGod….this smells like him. I immediately realize, bringing it to my nose for a deeper whiff. And the oddest thing is, I love it. 

I shuck off the bridesmaid dress and don the velvety robe, fastening its buttons and reveling in its softness. After swiping the discarded garment off the floor, I step out of the wardrobe and back into his room, drinking in the details with a more aware eye than before. I toss the dress and shoes onto the bench at the foot of his bed and walk around, my fingers delicately leaving a trail as I featherly explore the possessions of my schoolyard bully. At first, I’m apprehensive about touching anything, but I know the house had been cleansed of all dark artifacts and residual magicks and I highly doubt Narcissa would allow any traps to remain active. Little by little I grow bolder, selecting books off the shelf and thumbing through them, admiring hand-blown glass sculpted figures of various dragons, all in various species and colors. Some I can recognize immediately thanks to Charlie’s knowledge passed down through Ron and what I witnessed firsthand at the Tri-Wizard Tournament. I’m fondly reminded of Hagrid’s little baby Norbert.

Over at his Queen Anne style desk, where I imagined he penned his letters and logged in his journal, sits an ornate calligraphy pen and inkwell, a fine peacock feather quill and prefect badge, along with the horrid little Inquisitorial Squad pin he’d gained in fifth year as well. Oh what an absolute bastard he was, ruining our D.A. meeting back then. But how was he to know the significance of it? For all he knew we were throwing parties and drinking butterbeers while plotting ways to undermine Umbridge, not actually practicing defensive magic that would later prove tantamount in the final battle.

Hindsight is certainly 20/20.

I pull open the top drawer and see extra quill bits; a rim of Malfoy crest-embossed stationary with envelops, and something round, flipped upside down. Once I upright it I gasp at the sight. One of my old S.P.E.W. badges I made in fourth year after seeing how Winky had been so ruthlessly sacked and left to wallow in shame, and after learning about the horrid treatment Dobby endured while employed here. My young little bleeding Gryffindor heart couldn’t idly stand by while literal slavery was happening in front of my face.  
But why on earth would he even have one of these? And surely, if he taken one of these, why wasn’t it burnt or hexed or vandalized with disparaging graffiti? This was in pristine condition. Which could only mean…that he must’ve somehow gotten one-maybe bribing a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff to take one from the box-and put a stasis charm on it to prevent damage, and kept it all this time, almost five years later.

I feel around in the drawer more and am rewarded with the Holy Grail: his journal. Tossing the badge back into the drawer, I take the book and go sit on his bed. As I lie back, nestling my head against the pillows and smirk to myself-that oh my goodness I am in Draco Malfoy’s bed-a curious thing happens. Lights start twinkling in the canvass rooftop of his canopy bed, fourteen to be exact, in the familiar dip and cluster that I’ve come to easily identify. The constellation he was named after. I’m not sure whether it was merely the pressure of my body on the bed that activated the spell, or that I thought of him, but either way, the impressive light show provides ample lighting as I investigate the leather bound locked journal.

Of course there would a lock. I have no doubts that however close he might’ve been with his mother that not even he shared every little thought in his head. But from what I know of him, a basic Alohomora will not do. No, Draco is far too complex for something every first year student knows. Nor do any of the handfuls of unlocking spells I know work, leaving me to believe it is a password activated lock instead. Going on the same train of him not choosing such a simple word like Slytherin or even his own name, I start to wonder. Obviously, it wouldn’t be something he’d say that would sound too out of place, nor would it be so common place. 

“Right. If I were Malfoy…about to write, probably complain about Harry, Ron, and myself….what would I say to open my journal?” I ask out loud. “Gryffindors suck? Hogwarts is Hell? Hail Salazar?” I giggle, automatically thinking of white supremacists imitating the Third Reich salute. “Nah, he’d grumble and say Stupid Pottah and that Filthy Mudblood!” I mock his accent, just for a laugh, and to my astonishment, the clasp unhinges.

“Holy shit.” I mutter. I only meant it as a joke to cheer myself up; I didn’t really think it would work! But which part of it activated the charm? No matter, what’s done is done and I open it to see that this starts on September 1st, 1991. Our first day of school. This must’ve been another parting gift from his parents, so that he may record his days at the academy.

9-1-91: So it is true, Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. Sorted into Gryffindor and rebuked my offer of friendship in front of everyone. Embarrassing! And he chose to befriend the current Weasley of the litter and some girl with bushy hair. I remember her barging into my compartment on the hunt for Loser Longbottom’s lost toad. What a git, can’t even control his own familiar. And her! How haughty she was, a right snob. Does she not know who I am?

9-10-91: Unbelievable! Potter made the Quidditch team! All because McGonagall caught him going after the Remembrall I threw after Longbottom crashed and dropped the damn thing. Oh of all the first years it should be ME who made the team! I’ve had private training for five years! He’d never even flown a bloody broom until that day. Oh wait til father hears of this…

9-26-91: With any luck, Finnigan will blow up the next patch of potion in class and take out all the nearest Gryffindors-Potter especially. 

11-1-91: I can’t believe a bloody troll escaped the dungeon and tore through the castle! How lax is security around here where they cannot even keep children safe from dangers like that? I heard it went after the Granger girl in the loo, and the duo of Potter and Weasley came to her rescue. Ha. I bet that swot had the scare of a lifetime! Turns out she’s muggleborn, so she obviously wouldn’t know what to do in that situation. Honestly, why do they even allow the likes of her into this place?

11-15-91: Bloody hell! Outranked again by that Granger girl and her crazy hair and her stupid big teeth and that upturned nose of hers! How in the world does she manage to surpass me? I’ve had tutoring in all these subjects, I’m smarter than half this school combined, and yet this…this…ugh this Beaver just frolics around with dolts and with a dainty swish of her wand just miraculously masters any skill the professors hand out. Ha, at least she’s not fooling Snape; he shows her no favoritism at all. Too right, Slytherin’s stick together! She’ll soon learn that she doesn’t belong here, even if she is the top ranking student. Why wasn’t she sorted into Ravenclaw then?

Page after page I flip, little entries detailing significant events-according to him-and the gossip often whispered loud enough for Harry and I to hear, right along with dozens of complaints from the pampered boy who thought he’d be making Hogwarts his kingdom but instead was cast in the shadow of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was outrageously naïve and narcissistic, his mindset pretty much what I thought it was, although I was surprised at how he took dictation and the details he included that seemed rather unnecessary when describing someone he was supposed to loathe. Just from these entries I knew he spoke of me and my friends without using our names. Far more observant than I had pegged him for. Honestly, how many times did he need to insult my hair? 

I was really getting comfortable. The bed was an absolute cloud. The twinkling lights made me think of the strung up fairy lights I had back in my muggle home-long ago-and were a comfort. The ambience of his silent room while wedding planning chaos permeated the rest of the house. The point of view I was given insight to was oddly humorous despite the insulting manner and I soon drifted off to sleep. 

It was to my chagrin that Narcissa found me later on, with an amused arched brow and slight smirk at finding me asleep in her son’s bed, wearing only one of his robes over my bra and knickers, reading his diary. I couldn’t have looked more guilty if I tried.

“I do believe I am owed an explanation for this.” She bemused, sitting on the edge of the bed and glancing upward at the now dimmed constellation. “Lovely fellow, that Ronald Weasley.” She purred in a voice that I’d come to recognize as her sarcasm. “Overheard him and the groom-to-be discussing a certain conversation between the two of you.” I listened as she continued in her slow and gentle cadence, almost like she was telling me a bedtime story. “It is a wonder how the three of you managed to survive out in the wild like you did, and survive the battle of Hogwarts with how hot-headed and stubborn they are. And the ginger certainly lacks the cognitive reasoning to realize when he’s in the wrong.”

I nodded. “You know those two wouldn’t have made it without me. But what he lacks in intelligence he made up for with that caring heart of his-or so I thought.” I bite my lip with the bitter memory. “He practically said to not waste my time trying to restore my parents and just get used to life at the Burrow with his family. Like I had no other options or aspirations in life!”

“Pity he’s the Best Man or I’d have him banned from the property.” She replied in sympathy. “We’ll only endure his presence for what is needed. And I’ll see to it that you have a proper escort for the occasion. If only Draco…” she choked up. “I would’ve loved to have him here.”

“Me too.” I confess. “I’m sorry about all this. I didn’t want to ruin the dress so I borrowed a robe. I didn’t think it would matter much. And there’s no excuse for the journal…I’m nosy, I know that-”

“And brilliant.” She added, picking up the leather bound diary. “I tried everything I could think of and never managed.” She handed it back to me. “Since you cracked the code, by all means, finish it.” She effortlessly glides off the bed onto her feet and becomes the commanding presence she’s known for. “Do quickly run along to your room and dress for dinner, we have company and they’ve all inquired about you. We can discuss this,” she indicated with a wave, “later.”

It became my coping mechanism and my safe place, hiding in his room, reading his diary. All up until the very day of the wedding itself. Ron and Harry had never gotten a full on tour, so they were only vaguely aware of the important places (kitchens, loo, ballroom) and the guest quarters. Yes, in a fit of stupidity I showed them where I had been staying the past few months and now it was their go-to spot to search (uh hello, there is also a library in this massive structure!) when they couldn’t find me. Narcissa didn’t complain and it became our little secret.

Given that they were both Aurors, the majority of the time they were actually at work and out of our hair. I just had a handful of the other Weasley’s to contend with as plans were drawn up for the fireworks display, where the nuptials would take place, where the orchestra would be arranged, the guests seated, the table placements, and various charms set to ward off insects, rain, and uninvited guests. Narcissa was an absolute queen in control of her kingdom, selecting wine from the cellars and hiring extra staff to make and bring several cakes and entrees to sample, and choosing the perfect flowers and color scheme-all while working in tandem with Molly Weasley and Andromeda.  
With how little Harry had of actual family it would be a gross mishandling to try to seat people according to their familial ties, so seating would be arranged from the most prominent in his life on back. Several professors and even Ollivander were included; practically everyone in our year, several members of the Ministry of Magic and the Auror Division, and anyone that Harry had a kind word for. Due to Hagrid’s size a special chair was set aside and arranged so that he wouldn’t be blocking anyone’s view. 

The Weasley’s were an army unto themselves, as I had witnessed firsthand during Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and the massive wave of red made it abundantly clear who was related to the bride. My goodness, I’d never seen so much red hair in all my life. Since it was a Gryffindor bride and groom, the prominent colors were of course the established crimson and gold, with allowances of the neutrals white and black to be worn for the occasion. The Slytherin guests grumbled half-heartedly, mainly just happy to be back on familiar turf and in a positive social spotlight. They’d endure the “horrid color scheme” for the sake of pleasing their favorite matriarch.

“I’m not one to pry,” Theodore Nott drawled as he swished a little red wine in his glass, “but I do believe you are wearing one of Draco’s rather tasteful dress robes. And it certainly is quite fetching.”

I flushed. “Oh yes, Narcissa has loaned me some for the occasion.”

He cocked his head down to meet my eye. “First name basis and borrowing her son’s clothing…I’d say you’re well past being just business associates.” 

“It’s been a process.” I lamely reply. “After all, it took you guys a little while to warm up to me last year. And yet, here we are, also on a first name basis.”

“Schoolmates is one thing, mother of your enemy is another.” He countered with a wink. “I was instructed to keep you as far from the Best Man as possible, any reason as to why?” he asked slyly, as if he hadn’t been informed.

“Does it really matter?” I respond with my own question. I’ve learned how to speak Slytherin. I’ve drained my glass and finally feel loose enough to be in company of this magnitude. Far too many people here want to bathe in the proximity of the “Golden Trio” and the requests for photo ops reached a point to where even my so-called dates’ patience had been tested, dragging me away to the bar and placing a glass in my hand.

“Care to dance then?” he asks me. “After all, it’d be a shame to not let that robe get a twirl or two.” It was the only thing even remotely Gryffindorian in Draco’s wardrobe, no doubt made custom-ordered for an occasion he only attended once and then put away to be forgotten. It paired well with my MOH dress but I felt so subconscious being ogled at that I threw it on as a shield. 

Theo has been raised in the same social atmosphere as any pureblood and effortlessly leads me into the dance even though we’ve jumped in a little behind the crowd. He knows where to place his feet and his hands never wander, behaving like a gentleman (no doubt to be spared a flaying if he didn’t) and makes it look all too easy. It reminds me so much of Yule Ball that I almost choke up.

“Aw come on now, don’t ruin your makeup or they’ll think I’m to blame.”

“Of course it isn’t you Theo.” I sniff.

“No. But I have a good idea as to whom…”

Give a Slytherin points for clever deduction. 

There’s dinner, the speech, the cake and more dancing, followed by the fireworks and a lot more drinking. I don’t think my hand is ever empty for more than the length of a dance or trip to the loo, the red wine flowing like fruit punch. I dance with Harry, I dance with Hagrid, and I even get in a gaggle with the bride and our best girls for a few particular bouncy beats. During the entire time, Theo keeps himself firmly lodged between me and any attempt to be close to the Best Man as per instructed, whether by means of refilling my glass or whisking me off for another dance or pretending we’ve been called away by another prominent guest.

Narcissa was right to choose him. Even Pansy and Blaise swivel to our side and become a barrier that Ronald simply doesn’t have the courage to approach. Not on his best mate’s wedding day. Were this Hogwarts, he’d be ready to throw down; probably thinking McGonagall would have his back. She’s here and absolutely loving the unity between former school rivals. I can already foresee pictures of this day gracing her desk with pride before the new school term starts in just a few days.

I’ll be twenty in less than a month’s time, and I’m making it my goal to be reunited with my parents by then, to have that special day make up for the three we’ve missed out on. I told Harry and Ginny so they wouldn’t have to worry about cutting short their honeymoon just to celebrate my birthday. Right now, no one can give me anything that I either need or want.

As the night carries on-as well as my partaking in fine red vintage-my lips loosen and in confidence, I spill so many secrets to Theo as we’re sitting outside on the grounds, watching the impressive firework display that had George beaming with pride and Angelina taking business cards and request orders. As the event dies down and stragglers lag for final farewells and future business endeavors with Lady Malfoy I tell him about Draco’s diary and what I’ve learned of him through reading it. How it was him who tore a page on basilisks to secretly slip me in second year. How I had effectively ruined his worldview in third with a mighty punch to the face. How he’d effectively warned me of approaching Death Eaters during the attack at the World Cup. And how he couldn’t stomach the torture his aunt put me through, being torn from wanting to intervene just to make it stop and trying to look strong in the face of his peers. He never actually wanted anything like that to happen, especially not to people he knew. He’d been naïve in thinking that somehow the new world Voldemort had in mind would just be deaths of those who deserved it…but it turned out, the only ones deserving of death had been the very people that surrounded him.

All the while my heart ached and bled for the tormented sixteen year old boy forced to carry out a murder plot and watched people be tortured in his very own home. He’d lost family members he never got the chance to be on good terms with, and felt abandoned when Zabini and his mother fled the country just in time before they could be dragged onto either side. He mourned for Dobby when he learned that Bella’s knife made it through the apparation mist and into his chest, longing to one day come to Shell Cottage and properly grieve at his grave. He didn’t get the chance though; his exile was so swift that he’d barely time to have a proper farewell with his mother before being hauled off.  
The diary ends so abruptly that I feel like I’ve had the rug ripped from under my feet after diving into such an enticing novel, only to have an unresolved ending in an incomplete work. 

“So…you’ve become quite infatuated with Draco, now that he’s gone. Ironic.” Theo stated as he undid the straps on my shoes. I couldn’t walk in a straight line, much less while elevated on spindly heels without the risk of breaking an ankle. He had an arm firmly around my waist to keep me upright as we walked back inside. “Looks like any chance I had at seducing you was lost before I could even start.” He laughed and I’m not sure whether he’s being honest or making a joke at my inebriated state. “Which room is yours Sleeping Beauty?” he asks as he leads me to the hall.

“I’ve been staying in Draco’s room.” I unabashedly declare, leaning on him as gravity seemed to increase its weight upon me. 

“You’re barmy lass.” He chuckles, leading me out of the guest wing and up to his friend’s childhood bedroom. He knows this mansion as well as his own, thank goodness for I don’t think I had the cognitive skills to navigate my way there on my own. “Alright, one drunken request fulfilled. Anything else I can do for you?” he teases as I slump onto the bench and start working on the clasp.

“I am not incapable of this, so that’s a no to your unspoken offer.”

He snapped his fingers. “Aww shucks, you caught me.” He sounds more amused than disappointed, and after a goodnight peck on the cheek, exits the room for the night. I undress and slip into Draco’s own pajamas, and then nestle into his plush bedding and fall asleep with his constellation watching over me. My last conscious thought is how I wished it had been Draco as my escort, with him twirling me around the dancefloor, him kissing me goodnight.


	11. Pandora's Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music:  
> Creep by Radiohead

To say I was on pins and needles was an understatement.

I barely caught any sleep that first night after discovering the boxes and bearing the truth to the Wilkins, er Grangers…Now I was having difficulty differentiating between the two. Although, they didn’t fully remember themselves and still referred to each other by their Wilkin identity and not their Granger ones, so I might as well until the situation changes. And I was about as on edge as I was when the Dark Lord had invaded my home, worried that any stray sound would mark the arrival of Hermione, the harbinger of my doom.

But nothing happened that first day. I jumped at every car engine, door knock, phone call, and whenever Hamlet felt the urge to bark at something I didn’t immediately see. Just normal everyday passerby’s and outdoor life. Nothing happened in the following days. Odd. I was still on edge, ready to snap from the anticipation but I had a life to continue living and duties to tend to. I wasn’t going to let my work fall behind because I was twiddling my thumbs in the long wait.

And after a week of this limbo, I needed a release, so I was at the Drunk Dingo, slamming a few pints back with Cody and Liam, who were quite intent on figuring out what had gotten under my skin.

“My past.” I said. “My past is coming up to bite me in the arse and I may not be around here too much longer.” I didn’t need to elaborate on the details, considering they believed I was in witness protection of sorts and couldn’t discuss the matter. Seeing as the Wilkins had provided most of my needs, whatever money I earned from the tip jar and from fellow locals in exchange for my assistance in things, I saved the majority in a large jar in my bedroom. I was beginning to think I’d need every dollar of it pretty soon, so after my last draught I marched over to the piano to play for the masses. 

I feel like I should be practicing my funeral dirge.

When home I found my curiosity increased tenfold when we’d found a box containing a small collection of little diaries, dating back to when she was merely eight and already noting a strangeness about her that she couldn’t quite explain. Stories of her accidental magical bursts ranged from hilariously entertaining to downright terrifying, and she was shunned in her muggle school as a freak. The first entry that marked the arrival of an acceptance letter and meeting with a “stiff but proper Scottish witch” was written boldly, colored in red ink with little zigzags and squiggles to emphasize her joy at finding our not only magic was real, but she was indeed a witch and it explained all the weird moments in her life that otherwise defied logic. 

She was so happy.

Her next entry read like a list of basic profile information; House Gryffindor, class schedule, roommates, fellow housemates, a brief history of famous Gryffindors before her and then of course, meeting the famed Harry Potter. Her birthday followed in little over two weeks but it wasn’t much of a celebration since she was away from home for the first time and without established friends. Their letter had arrived through the muggle post set up for the muggleborn students but it ran much slower than owls. Luckily she got it in time and it was every bit of consolation that she needed on this journey.

And then she met me.

Entries to follow contained the bitter reality that she was a loner even among her own kind, and to find that she was considered bottom of the totem pole in the hierarchy of things, that there were some students here from long lineages who considered themselves superior in every way-despite her affinity for slaughtering them with her high marks-and none other than Slytherin Prat Extraordinaire Draco Malfoy. 

I winced reading-verbatim, might I add-all the insults, the mockery, the jinxes, hexes, curses, and cheap tricks I pulled to try to tear her down. She always had tough skin in a crowd but alone she cried bitter tears and begged the stars above for just simple acceptance. And the worst of it all was that even though I was the number one on her bully list, that there was a bully list to begin with, and many of those on it were fellow Gryffindors. Yeah, her own housemates picked on her too. In fact, it was Weasley’s declaration of her being a “nightmare” that sent her off running to the girl’s loo that Hallow’s Eve, unaware of the danger in which a troll had been set free and crossed her path. Stupidly, Weasel and Potter ran headlong into the loo and threw broken chunks of toilet at the damn thing to rescue her. And then they began the Trio.

Inseparable. Peas in a pod. The Three Musketeers. The Golden Trio.

She stood up taller and prouder, knowing they had her back and she had theirs. As a unit they were stronger together and what I had to say wouldn’t be so effective. She helped them study and they tried to get her interested in Quidditch, Wizard’s Chess, and Exploding Snap. More often than not she felt like she’d become their adopted big sister with how she always had to remind them to work, but they in turn would make her laugh when she stressed out over a study session.

She diligently recounted all their exploits together. Damn Potter and his stupid Invisibility cloak and Marauder’s Map! He got away with soooo much! Half of this I didn’t even know about! I had no idea they went through all those little traps and trials to protect the Philosopher’s Stone from Professor Quirrell. I didn’t know it was Dobby who had forewarned Potter of the incoming danger for second year, and sealed the entrance to Platform 9 3/4 so they ended up stealing Arthur Weasley’s car and crashing it into the Whomping Willow. Fools were lucky to survive that! 

Oh and then the real topper: they bloody trusted her with a Merlin forsaken Time Turner! So she could take extra classes! I mean who does that? Honestly. And only because she was a Gryffindor. No chance in hell would that have been the case if she were Slytherin. Hell, if her not being muggleborn she probably would’ve been a Slytherin, brilliant and cunning as she was. At age fourteen she was doubling her curriculum and even rescued Buckbeak-that bloody chicken-and broke my nose with one hell of a punch.

I found myself respecting her far more than I would’ve ever admitted out loud. Only my journal back home knew my secrets. Even though she didn’t understand the ancient laws in place for house elves I admired her stand for their rights and picked one of her badges off the floor-whether it fell out of her little tray or someone threw it, I’ll never know, but I pocketed it for later. I laughed at the terrible acronym S.P.E.W. and preserved it, using it as a bookmark. I started seeing her differently then, and no moment was more pivotal for me than Yule Ball, in that periwinkle dress, on the arm of my freaking favorite seeker in all of Quidditch, dancing like she’d been trained since birth and smiling in a way that I’d never seen before.

Ron had to be a git, put a damper on things by saying she was cavorting with the enemy-oh as if Krum was a damn threat!-and left her to wallow in grief over her choice of friends. I still wonder why and how she ever developed feelings for the ginger git and not Potter. Of the two, at least he made sense. And not even for his unworthy fame, he was just all around a better wizard for her. If I was to say such a thing. Last I heard he was tangled up with the Weasel’s sister. Well, at least he’ll finally have a family now.

If she had been my date though…

I shake off those kind of thoughts. Now is not the time to be thinking of her like that. Monica makes a habit of returning to the boxes, now taking a permanent residence in the living room, whenever she finds herself with even as little as five minutes of time to herself and fingers through the items, trying to grasp that just barely out of reach memory of a teenage daughter with curly brown hair. She recognizes the music records, the saved tee shirts, the Barbie doll and many awards, these are things that already existed, but the handmade craft items, the drawings, the letters, photographs and diaries are the mystery. Too personal to be falsified. Illogical and inconceivable as to even suspect someone of doing such a thing. So surely, this young girl must be real and out there somewhere.

They’re dentists, not neurologists. And even if they were, they still can’t find a fathomable reason as to how two full grown adults in their mid-forties can suddenly forget the only child they’d ever had, change their names, leave their country, and take up residence in the southern hemisphere. They find an address book listing off family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers to the Grangers and ponder calling a number. It took every ounce of persuasion I had to convince them otherwise since they hadn’t yet regained their memory, despite however they thought speaking to a former colleague might jog it back.

“You wouldn’t be ready to explain your two year absence, nor would you have answers to questions they’d have. Trust me, it’s best that you stave off that idea until you fully remember them. You saying the wrong thing with your amnesia could push them further away.”

Frustrated but understanding, they reluctantly set that idea to the wayside for now. Honestly, I understand how they feel. Sure, I didn’t lose my memory and am struggling to regain myself but I know the amount of restraint it takes to not rush ahead with a primal urge. My time serving under the Dark Lord kept me on guard at all times, walls around my emotions and thoughts, and desires held at bay. Anything that could be taken from you was used as leverage in order to secure your mission was completed.

My parents were my leverage against me.

“Kill Dumbledore, or it will be your parents that pay the price.” He had ordered. “And I will not end them quickly.”

That was far too much stress for a sixteen year old to endure. Every day of my sixth year was hell. I was trying to find subtle ways to get to Dumbledore with poisoned mead and a cursed necklace. Both attempts failed royally. I sure as hell didn’t WANT to kill him, or Katy, or Weasley-despite my indifference to his existence-but I had to make it at least look like I was trying. Then that whole business with the Vanishing Cabinet. Yes, the challenge it presented fed that part of my mind that loved a good puzzle, but the result of what was to come upon its completion-or lack of-had me sick to stomach every time I touched it.

Either I fix it and let murderers inside a school, or I watch my parents be tortured to death and then join them soon after….

When Harry cornered me in the bathroom and used the Sectumsempra, I laid there on the cold tile and prayed for death to take me. Just take me, spare me this torment, have Voldemort find another stooge to do his dirty work…

But damnit, my godfather had found me and with a simple Vulnera Sanentur and the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey I lived to continue my task. Finally fixed the cabinet and then all hell broke loose. And to this day I regret ever doing it. I never possessed courage, but if I had known just what the consequence of my actions would be, I would have found another way around it.

However much they want to remember their past is how much I want to forget mine.

Once they regain their memory, wholly and fully intact, they’ll know who I am. There’s no way that they went six years without hearing about the boy who bullied their daughter. The boy who made her feel unwelcome and inferior, unworthy and ugly, whose petty jealousy at her intellect and magical finesse made him insecure and question everything he’d been raised to believe and he didn’t like where those thoughts went so he tried even harder to break her down.

And it wasn’t until she lay upon the floor in my drawing room, unrelenting in her protests and denials that I truly understood why she’d been sorted into Gryffindor. She was intelligent, but she had the fortitude to stand up for what she believed in, no matter the cost-even if it was her life. What Ravenclaw did I know wouldn’t crack under the pressure and turn Harry in just to make the pain stop?

How would the Grangers react upon hearing that particular event?

I could just imagine her father pulling a shotgun from the linen closet and aiming it at my chest, her mother grabbing the vase off the coffee table and chucking it at my head, and Hermione standing there, letting them.

These thoughts consumed my every waking moment.

I threw myself into my chores, my music, and my means of surviving on my own should it become necessary. A to-go bag is stashed under my bed, packed with a few days’ worth of essentials and everything else within close reach. Just prepared for the worst, as usual.

It would be though, that when I least expected it, she re-entered my life.  
………………………

It was Friday night at the Drunk Dingo, payday for the locals and party night for the tourists on top. A good night for tips. Too good to pass up despite how god awful I’d been feeling all week. I was wound as tight as my guitar strings. Cody and Liam roll up a joint and pass it to me.

“Here man, this will loosen you up. Trust me.” he promises. “You don’t smoke it like a regular cigarette, you hold it in, let it out, cough a few dozen times and then you’ll be feeling it.”

True to his word, I do it and it does.

Open mic night was just my hobby that became a means to an end, but for the guys, it was recognition. They wanted to make it. They wanted to be discovered and become a real band, dedicate their lives to the craft and have their names be known. They knew it wasn’t my passion despite my talent, and I told them as much; keep an eye out for someone else to take my place when I go. I’ll stay and play as long as I’m around.

Tonight I’m doing a song that has stuck with me ever since I first heard it. I felt every lyric, all the emotions I knew I was capable of, and how personal it seemed as if the band had known me. Because I feel like a weirdo and a creep. I know I don’t belong here.

The interior lights are dimmed, a little haze of smoke lingers over some tables, the stage lights are aimed at the guys and myself so it’s a little hard to distinguish anyone who isn’t in the first row of tables. Silhouettes and shapes, voices and scents. As I sit on that wooden stool and strum the strings, leaning in towards the mic and sing the lyrics I swear I feel something different in the crowd tonight, although what it is exactly I cannot say.

“When you were here before  
Couldn't look you in the eye  
You're just like an angel  
Your skin makes me cry  
You float like a feather  
In a beautiful world  
I wish I was special  
You're so fuckin' special  
But I'm a creep  
I'm a weirdo  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don't belong here”

I just close my eyes and imagine the words are directed to only one person in this whole world who could ever make me feel so raw and vulnerable, an apology I’ll never get to say.

“I don't care if it hurts  
I wanna have control  
I want a perfect body  
I want a perfect soul  
I want you to notice  
When I'm not around  
You're so fuckin' special  
I wish I was special”

How could I not think of her when I heard this? How many times words like this came to mind when I thought of her? How many times I think this of myself now, knowing that nearly everything I did in my life up until a year ago was just an utter waste of the precious gift it was.

“She's running out the door  
She's running out  
She run, run, run, run  
Run……..”

She’d never believe me. Not a single word from my mouth, even if she gave me enough time to say anything. Maybe I should just let her hex me and leave my carcass for the dingoes. After all, this is my punishment, my atonement for my sins. Wouldn’t it be fitting to live long enough to meet my end from the one I relentlessly bullied?

“But I'm a creep  
I'm a weirdo  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don't belong here  
I don't belong here”

I may not belong in England anymore but I certainly don’t belong in Australia either. I am a man unto myself, exiled and destitute, paying for the crimes I willingly committed and would probably still do again if given the chance to save my parents, well at least my mother. My father pretty much checked out of the parental obligations of my well-being when Voldemort took our home and turned it into his base of operations.

If I could go back…

The applause snaps me out of my wonderings, and for a moment I just glance off into the crowd, the lights straining my vision. Am I truly losing my mind or did I just actually see her? No, that couldn’t possibly…I mean, well her parents live here…but….was that really her?

I sling the guitar strap off my neck and dash offstage and through the cheering audience, locals patting me on the back and tourists just fawning as I slip past them in a blur, leaving Cody and Liam behind to handle the equipment and tip collecting. We made a deal that we’d split the amount 50/50, as they were the ones to join me and didn’t really need to survive off it like I did. But I wasn’t going to not let them go through all the work of practice and travelling and setting up/breaking down for free. At least what they earned paid for the petrol and whatnot while all mine went into the big jar. I trusted them to be fair about it, right now it didn’t matter, I had to confirm what I thought I saw.  
I push through the entry doors, following the path I’m sure the brunette took and grip the neck of the guitar tightly as I dash into the parking lot, jumping as I hear the telltale thunder-like crack of apparation. I arrive merely seconds late, but enough to see dirt still swirling in the air and tingling with residual magic, faint enough for even someone as out of practice as I to recognize.

She was here….

She’s going to be at the ranch in seconds, and no matter how fast I run to the truck, jump in, start it up, slam on the gas, and wheel out of there and fly down the road, I will be precious minutes late regardless. But damned if I don’t try and set a new speed record in my haste. My palms are soaked in sweat as I drive, eyes on the road, pedal to the floor, never more glad that the police rarely patrol this stretch of road since it only leads up to farmer’s territory.

The Grangers with their little stretch of land only have a handful of neighbors with their own plots, plenty of open space with scatterings of trees and bush for sheep herding and gardening and whatever else someone tries to cultivate here. And I bet that was no mere coincidence either. Plenty of open space where a loud bang and the sudden appearance of a woman from thin air wouldn’t raise nearly so much a ruckus as it would’ve in the suburbs.

Clever witch…

I don’t care how much of a madman I look when I squeal tires and send dirt flying and barely slam the gear into Park before I leap out of the truck, lights still on, door open and barging up to the woman with her back turned, but I’d recognize that hair anywhere.

The headlights from the truck illuminate her form in the evening night, she whirls around and stands frozen like a deer in headlights (ah, now I understand that term!) and raises her wand in my direction.

Oh shit, I’m totally defenseless here!

“Who are you?” she demands, shielding her eyes with her other hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here…Granger.” I reply. I watch recognition take shape in her eyes. Glorious how that mind of hers works.

“M-Malfoy?” her voice quivers, as does her wand, as does her whole body in short succession.

It is at that moment that it all happens at once:

The Wilkins open the door and emerge, full of questions as to why I drove like a raving lunatic, if I’m alright, am I drunk, did I get into a row with the boys…as Hermione turns her head in their direction and her eyes light up, that unmistakable joy at seeing her parents after all this time as she lowers the wand with the practiced speed of someone used to hiding magic from Muggles and nearly calls out to them when there’s that shared second of silent recognition between all three parties…until Monica breaks the spell with her next sentence.

“Oh my god, Wendell, it’s HER.” She gasps, tugging at her husband’s sleeve. “It’s the girl Drake’s in love with.”

“WUHHAT?!?” both Hermione and I sputter incredulously, as Wendell chides “Mione, dear, a little tact hon?”

I hear Hermione start to breathe quickly, everything coming to a head far too quickly to be processed: my presence, her mother’s outburst, her father’s use of her own nickname but towards his wife, and probably the drastic twenty four hour time difference finally comes crashing down on her with the weight of both our worlds and she crumbles to a heap of limbs at my feet.  
…………………..


	12. Departure and Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music:
> 
> Creep by Radiohead

Nursing the hangover I inevitably received from my excessive intake of fine elven red wine, I am slow to move about my room, looking for my clothing for several minutes before I realize I slept in Draco’s bed-once again-and had nothing but my bridesmaid dress and strappy shoes on my backside before unceremoniously plopping upon his duvet and in nothing but one of his night shirts.

It’s a little disarming then, when knocks rattles the door and I squeak in fear because it is heavy-handed, clearly by a male hand, and I dive back under the covers before the door creaks open and I hear a voice call out “Granger dear? Wakey wakey!”

Oh my god, Theodore….

I peer over the hem of the duvet and blink heavily at his entry, marching into the room he knows so well, like he hasn’t been here a dozen times before in his childhood. I feel the plop of folded laundry on my lap before I can process it and I hear him tut-tut at my bedraggled appearance. 

“Little bit o’ advice if you plan to have breakfast.” He said, nudging the small pile of laundry. “Have clothes prepared in the room you crash in.”

I harrumph. Not exactly like I planned to sleep in Draco’s room-again-but I’d let my mouth run away with my thoughts and just blurted it out when he asked where’d I’d been sleeping. I hadn’t lied. But…well, it still technically wasn’t my room to begin with.

“I won’t object if you want to traipse downstairs in nothing but Draco’s borrowed pajamas.” He drawled. “Cause quite a bit o’ gossip for the remaining guests here.”

That makes me bolt upright, still clutching the duvet to my chest.

“Need any help?”

I shiver with the intended effect his proposition puts in my mind, but only briefly. I barely let Harry and Ron have a gander at me half-dressed while we lived out in the woods and had to Scourgify ourselves if we weren’t near a source of water. We shared a tent for nearly an entire year and while I caught them shirtless and bare-arsed a few times, they’d never had the unintentional walk-in on me. I wasn’t about to let myself be seen by prying eyes yet. I wasn’t comfortable with anyone seeing that God awful scar on my torso from my duel with Dolohov.

“You can walk in with a breakfast tray laden with champagne and French toast, freshly laundered clothing and lay rose petals on the floor but I’m not undressing in front of you.” 

He clutched at his chest. “Wound me.” he dramatically gasped.

“I will, and I don’t need a wand to do it.” I warn him with a sharply pointed finger in his direction as he backs away.

“Best hurry up then love, food’s awaiting.” He singsoned upon his exit.

Breakfast is almost a Slytherin reunion, with Auntie Andromeda and Teddy Lupin joining in for fun and a splash of color. Teddy’s hair has taken on the pride of Gryffindor red thanks to the décor that was strewn about the manor just twelve hours previous. Everyone is still reeling from the wedding euphoria, front page coverage on the various newspapers held by the matriarchs and tutting about the night’s festivities. 

This is the first time in months that there’s been enough guests to require eating at the formal dining table, and I see several spots prepared for some who haven’t arrived yet. The presence of Luna Lovegood surprises me, I would’ve figured she’d gone home last night but the whimsical Ravenclaw is humming as she dribbles syrup over her pancakes like a happy child. Blaise, Pansy and Theo are already up and dressed, dinning with Narcissa like old friends. 

As I’m nursing my hangover with coffee George and Angelina stroll downstairs like a couple fresh from…ahem, certain activities and Narcissa is literally beaming with pride that her home might be the place of conception for a future Weasley. Sometimes this woman boggles me. But there’s nothing like a wedding to bring people together and set aside silly school rivalries as we dig into a hearty meal and talk like we don’t have a care in the world. How wonderful it is, no worries of impending doom and gloom but actual good news for once. It’s like the world has finally shifted back to normal.

Eventually, conversation turns towards me. My goals. My plans. My parents. Congratulations from those who’ve only just heard about my recent breakthrough with Lockhart and the process of which I used over several sessions to recover his lost memories. A tangent develops as I go into detail, now that I’ve organized my notes and am getting ready to submit them to a publisher-recommended by Narcissa of course-and everyone starts throwing out creative titles for the book.

“How bout ‘Unlocking Lockhart’?”

“Unobliviation?”

“Memoirs of Memories?”

“Hermione Granger’s Redemption: How She Erased her Parents to Save Them and Brought them Back?”

Everyone looks at Theodore, cheeks filled like a chipmunk. “Whut?” he shrugs like he didn’t just suggest an obnoxiously long and obvious title.

I shake my head but smile anyways. I knew he didn’t mean it seriously.

“Whatever it is you choose, it will be valuable information nonetheless.” Andromeda states. “You’ve done well in such a short span of time. I believe it won’t take you very long to restore your parents. But, I still wouldn’t rush.”

I turn to turn her. “What do you mean?”

She sets her teacup down. “Well my dear…they’ve had two years living as they are currently. They may have settled into that lifestyle so well that they may not welcome a change to it. I wouldn’t go in there, wand blazing and start casting spells without doing a little reconnaissance first.”

“That,” Blaise said, pointing at her. “Is brilliant Aunt Meda.”

Aunt Meda? Is she adopting every child here now?

I ponder this as I return to my plate. She does have a valid point. Even if I restore them to full capacity it’s not like they’re going to suddenly forget living as the Wilkins. They’ll still retain that, as well as everything from before. What if she’s right? What if they do prefer being retired dentists turned sheep farmers in Australia rather than English refugees with a witch for a daughter that erased half their lives from them?

In the days that follow the wedding the guests that lingered eventually disperse, everyone off to live their own lives and do their own things, as I am setting off to do. Before the blessed event, Crookshanks had been brought to the Manor and had been spoiled by the house elves at the insistence of Narcissa. He’d been professionally groomed and given a full spectrum health evaluation and even had his toenails painted in Gryffindor red to match the bowtie he wore for the occasion. He was spending his time between being pampered by those eager house elves, playing with Teddy, or chasing peacocks on the property. I even caught him on one occasion trying to hook a koi from their pond. Cheeky Kneazle. 

The lady of the house expressed more generosity to me by extending Crookshanks’ visit to being indefinite, for however long my journey might take me, I need not worry about my beloved furbaby. Honestly, I think he’ll serve as more of a distraction for her impending loneliness and will give the elves something to temper in their mundane routine. Plus, Teddy’s frequent visits meant time spent with the orange fluff he knew so well and neither of us had to heart to separate the two.

It was all pretty mutually agreed upon. And one less thing for me to have to worry about should things take an unexpected turn while I’m in Australia. He could get loose from the carrier, bit by something venomous and die before I have the chance to safely apparate to the Australian Ministry for a healer. Not that I didn’t think he could hold his against a dingo but just to be on the safe side, I would rather he remain here. Hell, he’d somehow survived the Dementor’s attack at The Burrow, I’m sure he could face off with a Taipan or worse.

“Are you nervous?” Andromeda asked, catching me off guard as I was lost in thought, watching Teddy sit on Narcissa’s lap while Crookshanks chased the peacocks being ridden on by racing House Elves to both their delight. The golden haired great aunt was finally enjoying life once again. I wonder how long it had been since Malfoy Manor rang with peals of laughter.

“I’m terrified Meda.” I confess, gripping my upper arms and huffing a breath against the glass. “I’ve ridden a dragon and fought Death Eaters and destroyed Horcruxes with less worry in my gut than the idea of facing my parents and thinking they’ll disown me for what I’ve done.”

“You either let them continue living as the Wilkins and go through the world practically orphaned, become that best seller and Magical Creature activist and whatever else you imagined yourself to be…Or you go to Australia and restore the Grangers so they can continue being proud of you like they’ve always been, no matter what it is you’ve done.” The elder Black sister stated in a neutral tone, letting me weigh my options. 

“You really think it’ll be all ok?”

Andromeda takes in a breath and wrinkles her brow. “I think….When they first heard you were a witch and met with Minerva to discuss you attending a school strictly for wizards and witches, being told that they wouldn’t be able to come visit, that they were a frighteningly accepting pair of parents. And with every letter you sent home you encouraged them to accept that there were dangers in dealing with magic and creatures and even other wizards. Despite how tumultuous your years were, they supported you. Now, they might be angry. Upset and be wary of the power of magic, but they will still love you. That you cannot change. It might not be so easy for them to be at ease with it all but you knew there was a possibility when you did it. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

I sigh. “I would’ve loved to send them off with you. You were so understanding about both wizards and muggles.”

She pats my shoulder and then starts rubbing comforting circles to ease the tension I’ve built up. “There’s no guarantee that they would’ve been safe, given everything.”

It goes unsaid. I know exactly what she means. Her husband. Her daughter. Her son-in-law. If she and little Teddy had been found they would’ve been killed too.  
………………………..

I’m sitting the library, looking over my notes and going over everything for the fifth time, always wanting to add a bit more. There is more to reversing the Obliviation than just restoring my parents.

It’s the reason WHY.

What I did was because of who I am in a time where it wasn’t safe to be, so I made a life changing executive decision and took them out of the equation as I headed into battle.  
That’s WHY I obliviated them in the first place.

People need to know that.

And then it dawns on me that this just a chapter in my life, not the all-encompassing reason for my existence. I had seven years of a magical education that rode the ascension of a dark wizard’s return and am now in the aftermath trying to identify myself now that there isn’t a world to save. But ever since I was eleven, I was already on the path, aligned with The Chosen One to see him through to the end.

This book is now becoming a memoir indeed. My own memoir.

I start jotting down some basic plot points, major things that happened in each year, all the facts that the public wouldn’t know-or know correctly given Rita Skeeter’s knack for embellishments. It soon becomes a lengthy list trailing the floor before I realize it.

Ok, so this might become a series of books….

Narcissa strolls in on quiet feet, silently observing my newfound frenzy in my obsession to make the truth known. The honest to God truth, and take Skeeter down a peg while I’m at it. I hear her when she takes a seat in one the plush armchairs and just taps her fingers in contemplative entertainment until I run out of steam and take a step back.  
“Oh? Find something else you’d like to add?” she asks the obvious in mock surprise.

“I’m going to write about it all.” I answer, and then turn around to face her.

“Not just the war. No, ever since I stepped into Hogwarts and how every year built up to the war with the blood prejudice. How toxic behavior ran rampant through those halls, making children into future soldiers without them even knowing it. How close I came to dying on several occasions just because of what I am. How and what the children start to think and act upon after arriving in their Houses, just because of what others have told them is the way to be.”

She is quiet for a moment, her blue eyes widened at the enormity of what that means. “You’re going to ruffle a lot of feathers.” She replies calmly, but in a warning tone.

“I always have been.” I reply.

Then she nods, a proud grin gracing her lips. “Then prepare for a new kind of war dear one. The view of public opinion is as good as truth, especially when you have spiders like Skeeter spinning their webs of lies. The only difference is that now you are not a child to be bullied by power and prestige. You are a grown woman, a war veteran, and a symbol of the future. There will always be witches jealous of you and wizards that will fear you.”

“I say let them try.”

She lets out a hearty laugh. “You are so remarkable!” Taking my hand in hers she squeezes it to affirm her affection. “My dear, if you are unable to restore your parents, then allow me to become your next choice. Come back to the manor and stay here, live as the daughter I never had.”

My eyes nearly bulge out of my head. “What? Are you serious? You cannot be serious.”

“Oh but I am. Look at us, I without an heir, and you without your sires. We are two broken pieces that fit together despite the differences between us. What is to happen to this estate when I am gone? My sister doesn’t want it, nor would she be in the position to oversee it for she could very well pass before I do. But Teddy would need a home, and yes, Harry Potter sees to his property well, this would be a wonderful place for a young man to return to every holiday and take residence in once his education is over. And you with your brilliance would keep this place in shape; the elves employed, and do wonderful things with all the gold rotting away in our vaults.”

The implication of her words weigh heavy on me. Her son is long gone to her, and he never married, so she has no one to bequeath the inheritance to. And there are not so many trustworthy souls that could convince her they’d do right by her wishes. In the aftermath of the war, it’s all she can do to throw galleons to causes and host a charity dinner just to put an end to the nasty glares and belittling insults. She is paying for the sins of her husband and son.

And if I cannot undo the obliviation…where would that leave me?

Technically homeless, although a room at Grimmauld would always be open to me. And then what good would all that hard work with Lockhart have gotten me if I could fix him but not them? Would a book published in my name even sell if my one true goal was met in failure? 

I was welcomed here, wanted. I already felt at home oddly. It’d only been the summer but it felt like this had been my place for the entire past year. The hole in my chest from the absence of all the troublesome boys in my life made me realize how much time I’d dedicated to either watching their backs or watching my own because of their testosterone driven stupidity. Given that I had Head duties my time was not so open, but I noticed it in little handfuls…minutes here and there that would’ve been spent spell-checking Ron’s essays, trying to decipher Harry’s handwriting and clear away the ink smudges, the notice pinned on the door with everyone’s grades and seeing several names absent…

It was now time to start living for myself.  
…………………………………….  
I had gathered up the notes intended for my Undoing Obliviation book, finally settling on not only a title but also the content within. It would be the companion piece to what would be the biggest breakthrough in wizarding history, an actual historical recounting of a war barely a year old, not just from my side, but from the point of view of the other side as well.

Narcissa suggested that if I write it, stemming back to 1991 when I first entered Hogwarts and met who would later on be my enemy in a war that was already in the making, that I needed to include Draco’s perspective. Let the world see how the blood prejudicial ways corrupted the innocence of children and warped his way of thinking about those perceived lesser than him, how his actions had started as silly bullying and led to darker actions, such as taking on a position in the Inquisition Squad, then how his father’s failure led him to take the Dark Mark-under duress-and what he suffered through even though his side had the upper hand for the majority of the battle.

But it wouldn’t just be his account she’d be telling, Narcissa also had procured her husbands’ journals now that they were no longer needed as evidence. She’d worked whatever maternal or grieving widowequse charm at the Ministry to recollect them, after they’d been checked for curses thrice over and had faithful reproductions made should a cold case allude to something within.

I was never ceased to be amazed by this woman.

I held the fine leather tome in my hands with trepidation. Putting these once private and very prejudiced thoughts out in the public would rip old wounds open and probably tear down the Malfoy name even more. But Narcissa was done hiding behind its so called prestige, and had begun the paperwork of divorcing her husband and reverting back to her maiden name. He was never getting out, and if she was to have any semblance of a life she needed to sever the tie to him. A year was the customary standard time for a “widow” to move on, and she considered herself as such. At the Minister’s office, she voiced her intentions, insisting that all contact from Lucius be barred, and any attempts at communication would be forwarded directly to Shacklebolt’s office to be delegated.

“You seriously did that?” I ask her as I start packing away the Malfoy journals and the beginnings of my war anthology I’ve begun on my laptop into my traveling pack. I would not trust these to be stored in a suitcase and risk being mishandled through Muggle security. If anything, the flight and layover will give me ample reading time and I can thumb through some of Lucius’ journals from the first war. I doubt his mindset varied from then, all things considering.

“Why on earth are you taking muggle transportation? It would be far simpler and time effective to use the Floo and apparation points provided by the Ministry.”

I fold up more clothing, a combination of what was already my own and a few things that somehow magically ended up being my size that appeared in my wardrobe. That she insisted I take with me. Not to mention the navy blue robe she first loaned me. She didn’t understand that winter for us was summer for them and it would actually be quite warm. Or maybe she knew and she just wanted me to have the memento… She was crafty like that.

“I have no idea how long I’ll be down there, so I might as well start getting used to traveling and living without magic.” I reply. “Like Andromeda said, I should do some reconnaissance, so I’ll probably spend the first week tailing them and learning their schedules and routines before intergrading myself in their path.”

“Why not pull them aside, Imperio them to listen to you, and then use the memory charm and instruct them to remember you?” she suggests in a manner that almost sounds like a joke. It sounds like something one of my Slytherin friends would for sure say, but they would mean it. Slytherins usually like finding the path of least resistance.

“Ha! Please Cissa, tell me you’re joking.” I chuckle as I buckle down the clamps and recheck my mental list, tapping my fingers as I go over everything. I won’t have a way to contact anyone unless I return to the Australian Ministry in order to use their Floos and owls. I wasn’t even sure if they employed owls given the temperate climate. Narcissa had given me a money pouch-enchanted with an extendable charm-and said whatever I need would be charged to the Malfoy vault and that the Ministry had a currency exchange office should I need Australian muggle money. She at least recognized that the countries had their own currency. British sterling versus Australian dollars. The country may not be directly under British regime, but it was still a providence and therefore it wouldn’t be too odd for me to pull out British pounds.

But it was still nice knowing there was a vault literally overflowing with gold at my disposal should I need to pay for lodging for an unexpectedly long duration. I wouldn’t go broke with the meager muggle funds I had left to my name. And when Narcissa carefully worded it so that this was still in the name of research-which she was fully funding-I had to concede defeat at the masterful tactic and allow the woman to bequeath her boon.

I was going to spend the next 24 hours in flight, leaving London and taking my first layover in Italy, then following with the second layover in Thailand before finishing the leg to Australia. I was going to see a lot of clouds, the backs of heads, and air ports before beginning the real journey.  
……………………………………

An exhausting twenty-four hours later I had my approval of arrival and magical licensing stamped and sealed and to be on my person at all times should I be question by muggle or magical authority. On the off-chance that I display accidental magic in front of muggles or witness it, there was a number to call or be directed to call if I was in custody, which was the in-between liaison division that dealt with the crossovers.

I had shrunk my suitcase down and tucked it inside my knapsack, hiding also my wand and the journals. I had extracted a fair amount of wizarding galleons to exchange into Australian dollars, giving me plenty for a cab and kicking back as the cabbie drove his exhausted fair from Sydney to Parks & Forbes, a pair of small towns in which one hosted an Elvis festival-and I knew my parents had a taste for his music-and saw their fair share of tourists so their arrival would go unnoticed. Plenty of Brits went on holiday down here, some deciding to stay. But it was still far enough from the capital and other larger cities in case Death Eaters made their way here. I took no chances in providing them the perfect cover, which had taken a month of planning to perfect.

By the time I arrived home after sixth year, I had already secured the funds, the plane tickets, the new identities, the cover stories, and all but had their dentistry practice sold. My walking through the door was the final step in the plan. While they busied themselves with a movie and making snacks, I gathered up three cardboard boxes and began the meticulous task of placing only the most personal and intimate and meaningful of possessions inside. All proof of my existence, the awards and photos, trophies and artwork, handmade crafts and presents. I selected every photo hung on the wall, the photo albums, the birth certificate and my ID card. When the boxes could hold no more, as well as myself with my silent tears, I quickly scribbled ‘For When You Remember’ on each one, attaching a Notice-Me-Not charm specifically for when someone thought of me to remove the cloak. Then I pointed my wand at my bedroom and stripped it bare. Posters flew off the walls, clothes flung out the dresser and closet, toys and personal effects came to me, shrunk and stuffed away in a separate extendable charmed bag and stuffed it into one of the boxes, leaving nothing but pretty bedding in what looked like a guest room.

Standing behind them, saving the smell of popcorn and tea brewing, hearing the ticking of the clock on the wall, the familiar electric hum of the telly and the wind tickling the chimes out on the porch, I took one final breath and whispered the single word that changed my life forever: Obliviate.

I’d chosen to leave Great Britain at night, to have less of a crowded airport to deal with. It granted me just a modicum of breathing room and privacy on the plane as I steeled my nerves. I hadn’t taken a plane since our last family outing when we went skiing in France for Christmas, and knowing how several airplanes had been targeted in the war, I was ramrod straight and overly alert for suspicious activity for that whole flight.

The layover in Italy was relaxing; I was able to people-watch and drink an espresso and type out a comparative timeline with corresponding dates that both Draco and I mention in our diaries. Starting of course, with September 1, 1991. That day had come and gone already, but only by a week. It was still irony in play that I was beginning this categorical entry so close to the ninth anniversary. I hoped to have this all complete, printed, published and in stores by the tenth to mark the occasion. 

Everything so distinctly revolved around Harry, I noticed immediately. The things I remember writing had been because of something he and Ron had done or said (as well as the other Gryffindors, but I was not considered anyone’s friend at that time) and everything Draco had jotted down. Reading two versions of the same event was eye-opening. It was all a matter of perspective, hence why the phrase went: There are three sides to every fight. How each side saw it, and then the unabridged truth that was left up to God.  
The flight from Italy to Thailand had passed through some turbulence and had my nerves on high alert, gripping the arm rests and trying not to let my magic influence the pilot’s maneuvering. I for one was no expert on the machinations of the equipment and the weather and left it in the hands of the professionals despite every fiber of my being wanting to coax it along.

I was therefore frazzled and frayed, just wanting a drink and rest. So I instructed my driver to take me the length and compensated him handsomely if he would just drive smoothly and quietly, only to wake me for either our destination or an emergency. I curled up in the back seat; arms wrapped around my backpack for dear life and let myself be lulled into slumber with the gently swaying of the hackney. 

The closer I got to my parents, the more prevalent the memories became, in what started as a drizzle and soon became a torrential flooding as I woke with a start, gasping and grabbing at the door, startling the cabbie as I came to, quickly wiping my face and blaming my dream on the previous in-flight movie. I don’t think I was convincing but bless the man for not prying. Sensing my apprehension, he suggested I quell my nerves with a drink and suggested a pub on the off-skirts of town that had a little motel and petrol station nearby if I got too sloshed to continue on my way.

I nodded, taking the advice. I think a shot or two might just be what I needed. Thanks to the wedding and a few dinners with Narcissa, I had broadened my alcoholic tastes and at least had a basic introduction, enough to know I like rum and red wine. I’d traveled half the bloody world and it’s in the last few miles that I start losing my resolve.

He wishes me well, in a fatherly sincere voice, knowing he’s sending a single white college age female into a bar on a Friday night, but I assure him I have more tricks up my sleeve than to be taken in by some roughneck. It earns a chuckle out of him as he pulls into the petrol station to refill up, call his dispatcher, and check all his tires for the long haul back.

I look up at the name of the pub and let out a little snort.

The Drunk Dingo.  
………………………………….

I immediately stand out as a tourist. It’s the ruddy knapsack. But it has everything I currently own, hold dear, and need in life and I’ll be damned if I’m parting with it. Sure, I could’ve shrunk it down and stuffed it in my beaded bag, but like I had told Narcissa, I was trying to acclimate to muggle living while being here. A life with magic was easy on many levels, and as a muggleborn it was addictive and all too easy to fall into relying on it heavily.

At the bar I order a rum & coke, hearing the usual line of questioning as the bartender makes my drink.

Have I been here before? I look familiar.

Am I on holiday? Traveling alone?

Do I need a guide to these parts?

“No. Thank you.” I say, gingerly sipping the drink. “I know where I’m going.”

I take a small table in the back where the stage lights can’t reach and I’m nothing but a shadow for those performing on Open Mic Night. I don’t need attention brought to myself by the stand-up comedian looking for a target. Not in the mood for that shit. Not now or ever.

I listen to the nearby chatter of the locals; dodge a drunken pass, and some jokes that at least pass in the realm of humorous but not to my tastes and am letting the darkness and drink calm my nerves when three young men take the stage, earning a ruckus of cheers from the whole room. The whole atmosphere of the place changes and for some reason I can’t place it, but I could swear it feels like magic.

One takes the drums, another the bass, and the blond grabs a stool and pulls up to the mic, adjusts it so it’s level to his mouth and plucks a guitar that looks all too familiar, even from across the room, I can tell.

It looks like my father’s old guitar.

Had he sold it?

The slow clash of the cymbal and pluck of the strings with the rhythmic beat of the drum and I immediately know the song, it’s wildly popular. Even within the wizarding world, you get the occasional muggle song sneaking its way across the wireless or sung by muggleborn and half-bloods, so the worlds aren’t so terribly separated as one might think.

Twenty seconds of the intro before the blond opens his mouth, and when he does…

“When you were here before  
Couldn't look you in the eye  
You're just like an angel  
Your skin makes me cry  
You float like a feather  
In a beautiful world  
I wish I was special  
You're so fuckin' special”

I’m taken in by the rawness of his voice, the pain I swear I can hear as if he wrote the words himself, the song speaks to him personally, and it becomes a part of him as he closes his eyes and bears it out.

“But I'm a creep  
I'm a weirdo  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don't belong here  
I don't care if it hurts  
I wanna have control  
I want a perfect body  
I want a perfect soul  
I want you to notice  
When I'm not around  
You're so fuckin' special  
I wish I was special”

I hear more than just the lyrics in my head. For whatever reason, I can’t explain it, an image is conjured in my mind of a certain platinum blond Slytherin saying these words, as if it was an apology. To me.

“But I'm a creep  
I'm a weirdo  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don't belong here  
I don't belong here”

When the song concludes and the lights come back on I’m momentarily startled by the brightness and blink it away a few times, wiping at my emotional eyes. Perhaps having the drink and moping once again about a certain someone wasn’t the best choice but I can’t deny that I’ve let him in my mind. Desperation to save him or just the fact that there is so much unresolved tension between us that I feel unfulfilled until I find him and wring his lily-white neck until I obtain some sense of satisfaction has my former nemesis on my mind far too much.

So I abruptly make my exit, using the cheering and loud atmosphere of the pub to slip away, hoping to dodge another drunken advance when I get to the parking lot and decide that I’m sober enough to apparate, seeing as I do not have a rental. I never got the chance to take a driver’s test, let alone obtain a car and the time to practice driving. I give a look around, hearing the door bang open so I spin quickly while picturing the quaint little house, leaving nothing but some dirt swirling for the would-be onlooker.  
I purposely chose the countryside, for such an occasion like this; needing to apparate in or out in the instance of an emergency. There’s enough distance between the homes, barns, farm plots, and rolling hills that the crack of apparating doesn’t draw in so much attention. Might sound like a tree limb falling or a car back firing, nothing to bring out a string of people from a neat row of suburbs. No security cameras to pick up on the sudden appearance of a woman in front of someone’s house. No litany of yard dwelling dogs to suddenly go nuts.

I pull my wand out of my knapsack, from the distance it would look like an ordinary electric torch and watch out for snakes as I crunch along the gravel driveway and start looking around. I know it’s suspicious looking, but it’s late and they’re obviously asleep-and I need sleep-but I’m just too drawn in by curiosity. I was told that would be the death of me someday.

I cast a spell I revised, the Homenum Revelio, but with the familia twist so it recognizes blood relations. And sure enough, it’s just the two of them, in bed. All is well.

I should’ve known better though. Because whenever I think that, all hell seems to break loose.

And it arrived in the form of a truck barreling through the night at full speed, tearing down the lone lane and up towards the house-there’s no fucking way-and straight up the drive, with highbeams blinding me as the driver emerges and comes straight at me.

Without hesitating I pull my wand out at the man, his face cast in shadow from the lights behind him.

“Who are you?” I demand, shielding my eyes with my other hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here…Granger.” The male responds.

There’s only ever one person who constantly referred to me by my surname, and that accent, that voice…..it couldn’t possibly be…..

“M-Malfoy?”

It happens all at once; I see them bust through the front door, in pajamas and bathrobes, demanding to know why this “Tom” character was driving like a bat out of hell, if he was drunk, had a fight, were his friends alright…And I quickly pull my wand away from him and behind my back, wondering what I’m to say when my mother speaks first.

“Oh my god, Wendell, it’s HER.” She gasps, tugging at Dad’s sleeve. “It’s the girl Drake’s in love with.”

“WUHHAT?!?” both he and I sputter incredulously before I start hyperventilating.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real…..

It’s the last thing I remember.  
…………………………………


	13. How Hogwarts Alumni Greet Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Point 0f View now changes to third person.
> 
> Wendell has valid worries and Monica is hopeful.
> 
> Draco and Hermione sit and talk.

At the sight of the curly-haired young woman standing by Draco, both Monica and Wendell were struck with the strongest wave of déjà vu they’d ever experienced, rattling in their bones and speaking to their soul in some way they couldn’t articulate. Before they knew it, she’d collapsed to the ground and their adopted son immediately dropped to her side and scooped her up in his arms.

Wendell held open the door and Monica cleared off the excess pillows from the couch, bunching them up on one end for Draco to lay the unconscious girl upon before heading into the kitchen for an ice pack. Wendell charged over to the truck and turned it over, killing the engine and lights, removing the key from the ignition and coming back in. Monica motioned to Draco to support her head as she tucked the ice pack in behind so it met the back of her skull, where it had met the ground with a hefty thud.

“What is it with us and rescuing poor unconscious kids that cross our path?” the man joked to lighten the mood.

Monica smoothed the wily curls away from the girls’ face with motherly attentiveness, gazing at a face much like her own, only younger. The same shaped nose with the slightly upturned end, the rounded cheekbones, the dusting of freckles across it all…She turned to look at their long-term guest, grey eyes fixed on the sleeping girl intently as his arms crossed tight over his chest, his breaths slow and steady. He was anything but calm despite the outward appearance. Their slumbering ward stirred ever so slightly and he nearly jumped back a foot, his nerves wound tight like a frightened cat.

“S-sorry.” He sheepishly stuttered…. The memory of her fist in his face was still vivid. 

Wendell walked over to the fridge and pulled out two beers, handing one off to Draco as he re-entered the living room and claiming his recliner. “Ok, what’s the plan here?” he asked the two of them.

“We monitor her condition for signs of a concussion.” Monica immediately responded, almost unable to tear her eyes away from the girl, even to look at her husband.

“I pray she doesn’t kill me.” Draco threw out there sarcastically, yet every word was said in truth. He took a long draught from the bottle, knowing a single beer wasn’t going to be enough to ease his nerves.

“This is her, isn’t it?” Monica asked him. “My dau…daughter?” He firmly nodded.

“I’ve known her since we were eleven.” He stated. “I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistake, this is her. Hermione.” His eyes darted back to her prone form draped across the couch like a modern day Sleeping Beauty. She was still hiding her lithe form under layers of clothing, but holding her against his chest as he lifted her off the ground and carried her in, turning sideways and scrunching up even more as he passed through the doorway had given it all away. Her faded wash jeans, over shirt, and tank top couldn’t hide what he knew was there.

In her collapse, the knapsack on her back had slipped off a shoulder, so Wendell had taken it inside, along with the thin wooden rod with an ivy detailing along its handle. Whatever it was, it had been in her hand when she fell. He placed both items on the dining table when he entered the kitchen on his way to grab the beers, his eye wandering back in their direction as he sat in the chair. 

Wendell heaved a sigh. “Well this is going to be a fun weekend.” he stated dryly. This young woman was apparently his daughter, that their acquired handyman/tenant/son was also apparently besotted with, that he was also her schoolyard bully and opposed adversary in some sort of gang war, and she had somehow managed to erase herself from their memory for their safety as well as her own. His brain felt like exploding.

Hamlet, having been ignored far too long for his liking, had taken it upon himself to fully intergrade back into the sole focus of his family by going after the one that had taken it. He wasn’t a malicious dog, but he was spoiled. He was going to let this girl know just who’s house this really was. At first, she ignored the nudges against her side and to the arm that had dropped and dangled off the edge of the couch, which Monica simply picked up and placed back upon her chest. His whines went ignored or hushed, and his pacing only seemed to further agitate his humans, not the sleeping intruder. This simply would not do.

With a high pitch yip, he let his indignation be known to his family, telling them that whomever they invited in smelled of cat and dirt and something otherworldly, something like the way Draco used to smell but had long ago lost it. When they admonished him into silence he wiggled his butt and hunched low before springboarding into the air, landing on the girl.

“Hamlet!” Draco shouted, grabbing the dog around the middle and at his collar at once, hefting him into his arms and following Wendell’s lead to the front door where they deposited him outside. Monica had immediately caught Hermione who had gasped and shot upwards at the jolt to her body. She winced and clutched the back of her head, feeling the wave of vertigo hit and exhaust her instantly, going slack in her mother’s arms. Monica leaned her back against the pillows, pressing the ice pack to the lump on her cranium.

“She ok?” the tall blond asked, leaning over the back of the couch and peering down at his former classmate. Hermione groaned and shifted, one hand moving upward to rub the offended spot to her head.

“I think she’s coming to.” Monica said, eyes darting over to her husband. Wendell met and matched her gaze, full of hope and uncertainty.

The next thing the Wilkins’ knew, Draco was howling in pain, hands covering his face as he reared backwards, and their surprise visitor sitting up with a clenched fist and eyes wide with alarm. “Merlin’s Beard!” he shouted, wiping blood away and tentatively touching his patrician nose and wincing with watery eyes. “You sure know how to roll out the welcome mat.”

Hermione immediately took in her surroundings. A pale face with a pair of grey eyes was the first thing that came into focus, something she wasn’t prepared for and met it with terrifying and accurate defense. The two other people standing nearby she’d know anywhere, their faces never lost to her despite what she’d done to them. The curious nature in which their eyes roved over her told her they had not yet regained their memory of her. She could feel it in how she had been lying down-her knapsack had been removed and her wand picked up-it had been in her hand, last she remembered. Panic would do her no good, she had to remain calm and handle this logically. She certainly hadn’t intended to begin her journey passing out on their doorstep, but things had gone askew from the start.

For one thing. HE was here. And that was throwing every contingency she had prepared for out the window because it was the absolute last element she ever expected to be tossed in the mix. Here of all places! With her parents of all people! In her little corner of the world where they’d been safe from it all, and yet the Ministry sent him here!   
She watched as he stormed into the kitchen and heard the tap turn on, the splashing and mild cursing that followed as he washed the blood off his face and the pain that came with. Her parents were silent, merely observing her as she was observing them, all of them relying on Draco to serve as the ice breaker to the awkward tension in the air, providing the only source of noise to disrupt the otherwise muted atmosphere. He reemerged, kitchen towel to his nose, already blossoming with crimson stains and leaned against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen/dining.

“Well, some things never change.” He spat, clearly upset with the third year reenactment. “That how Hogwarts alumni greet each other these days?”

Her hand cradled the sore spot on the back of her head. “What’s going on here?” she asked, truly at a loss as to even begin in her line of questioning.

He brought the kitchen towel down, smirking at her deflated confusion and the bewildered parents still taking this all in with great stride. “Oh you know, just got handed a shit sentence at my hearing, thrown into nature’s poison pit and was left to die-and doing a damn good job of it-before these two lovely people pitied the pathetic excuse I was and took me in. Been here ever since, working and living like a muggle. Then you arrive and re-break my nose for me. Thanks for the brief stroll down memory lane.”

She cocked her head as she searched his face for any tells that would give away the lie, but found none. Then she spun onto the quiet couple who had refrained from interrupting on any part of the scene before them. “Do you two…know me?” she asked.

They shared a hesitant look with each other before meeting her eyes again. But that hesitation was all she needed. Taking a moment to compose herself, she turned away again, a trio of boxes coming into sight that shouldn’t otherwise be down here unless they did. She pointed, and before she could open her mouth, Draco spoke up.

“That was my fault.” He confessed. “I found them, up in the attic as I was cleaning, bored and reminiscing.”

“Remi-”

He nodded harshly, wiping his face again. “Yes Granger, thinking of you. And activating the counter to the Notice-Me-Not charm you cleverly placed on them. We’ve only known for a week. Been going stir-crazy trying to make sense of it all and safely explain it as well.”

“Thinking of me?” she repeated for clarification, her voice at a higher octave than usual.

He chuckled. “Really? That’s your takeaway from all that?”

“I’m trying to understand!” she shouted, looking around at the three of them. A second later she winced from the pain shooting through her skull.

“Don’t push yourself dear.” Monica said, motherly and nurturing as usual. Draco recognized the soothing tone as the one he’d woken up to upon his arrival. “We can all go over this in the morning. I’m sure you have quite the story to tell.”

“I’m sure she does.” Draco quipped, gently crinkling his nose to test his nostrils.

“Honestly, this is going to be a lot to take in, so yes, let’s sleep on it, have breakfast and nice cuppa to start the day and tackle this at the beginning.” Wendell spoke up, the voice of reason and authority.

Hermione hadn’t anticipated showing up only to be told to go to bed shortly after arriving, but at least they hadn’t kicked her out. Well hell, they took in Malfoy hadn’t they? But she was rattled far more than she wanted to admit, and perhaps some good old rest was exactly what the doctor ordered. Her emotions were way too high and one wrong word from Malfoy would have her reaching for her wand in a heartbeat.

Her wand.

She snapped her neck in the direction of the dining table where she saw her knapsack. As if reading her mind, Malfoy spoke up. “Yes, it’s there. Don’t worry.” She scowled at him, not enjoying being so transparent, even after a year of his absence.

Wendell finished his beer and marched back into the kitchen to dispose of the bottle. When he returned he clapped Draco on the back. “Can you two be trusted not to fight tonight?” Draco raised his hands in innocence.

“I’m the one who got punched for no reason.” He protested.

Yeah, some things never change all right…

“Now now children.” Monica chided. “No more fisticuffs, not if either one of you want a decent meal come tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.” They replied in unison, shooting each other a sudden quick glare.

Wendell rubbed his temple. “I’m at my limit.” he sighed. This was already overwhelming.

“G’night old man.” Draco sang in such a familiar tone that Hermione was slightly envious of the dynamic that had developed between the two.

Monica had come in with fresh linens from the closet. “For whoever decides to take the couch.” She announced, setting them in the recliner seat. Her eyes darted between the young adults nervously. She wasn’t suggesting that Draco give up his bedroom of over a year for this stranger, but she also knew the lanky youth would have limbs dangling off the couch if he did. “Drake, I’m sure you can give our guest a tour of the facilities, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He answered, eyes firmly locked on a set of brown ones that were unrelenting in their return gaze.

She stepped up to the young woman. “I know that this has all gone tits-up but I’m sure that in the morning, we’ll all have much cooler heads about this. Rest well.”

“Thanks mum. I mean…uhm, Miss Wilkins….” Hermione winced at her fumble. She felt like an idiot.

“No…it’s all right…” the older woman started choking up. “He’s told us…” she sniffed, pointing her thumb at Draco. “We looked through the photo albums, everything…we recognize you…I feel like I do know you….”

Draco turned his back to the scene, slinking back into the kitchen to rinse off the towel. He shouldn’t be privy to this, be here for the emotional reunion, the day she’s dreamed of and has mulled over a thousand times in her mind, only to have the biggest of all monkey wrenches thrown in the gears.

“How long have you been with them?” Hermione demanded, startling him half to death. He spun around to see her with arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg, and determination set in her brown eyes. He hadn’t heard a thing over the running tap.

“Hi, how are you? Enjoy your trip?” he snipped, flinging the towel back into the sink. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had dinner yet. Usually after a set he and the boys would grab burgers but he’d flown out the door so fast that the guys were probably wondering what had gotten into him. “Hungry?”

“Hungry?” she echoed, shifting her hands to her hips. “Quit deflecting and just answer the question Malfoy.”

“It’s Felton now, if you don’t mind.” He corrected, turning to the stove and putting a kettle on. “Tom Felton. Only they know my real name but call me Drake in privacy. Didn’t pick the name, didn’t pick the place but made do.”

“I didn’t have a hand in this, you know.” She stated for the record. 

“Yeah, I figured that out after a while.” He replied as he busied himself over the stove. Anything to keep himself busy. Anything to keep himself from looking at her. This wasn’t how he anticipated their meeting. “Have a seat. I’ll bring it to you.”

She remained rooted to the spot, watching in rapt fascination as the boy who was once so spoiled that he ordered his friends to carry his bags for him actually make her a cup of tea, by hand. He had pulled bread from nearby bread box and started toasting it, then strolled to the fridge and pulled out the jam. When he looked up their eyes met, before they quickly adverted from the glimpse. She headed to the table, grabbing her wand and knapsack and placed them in the seat beside her.

“What do they know?” she asked softly, twiddling her fingers.

“Bits and pieces.” He shrugged. “They have these moments where it’s on the tip of their tongue. It’s like they’re looking through a fence…it’s in the distance, but they can’t reach it.” He turned around with a tray set with tea and toast for two. Seeing the hurt in her face twisted a knot in his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No…it’s good…It’s good actually.” Her voice was anything but steady. She pulled her hands from her lap and placed them on the table top just as Draco slid a steaming mug her way. “I won’t have to dig so hard if they are already close to recalling things.”

He brought the mug to his lips and blew the steam away but didn’t drink. He knew why she was there. They both did. The elephant in the room grew larger and larger with each minute of silence between them, suffocating and smothering, looming and nudging into his personal space until he couldn’t take it and set the mug down with a clank.

“I guess I’ll go first.”  
……………………………..

“Wendell dear, are you alright? You seem a little…withdrawn.” Monica slid into the bed next to him, concern etched across her face as she drank in the contemplative features of the man she loved.

“It’s a lot to take in Mione.” He sighed. “What if everything he’s told us is true? He was an absolute git all through their school years, his family hurt her, and now she’s here….and she erased our lives with her…Can we trust her? Him? Any of this?” he threw a hand up, gesturing to open air.

“We’ve always been open-minded, open-hearted. Why question it all now?”

He turned to her. “What if it isn’t real? What we think and feel and how we’ve lived for the past two years? What if she’s completely rewritten us into some ideal perfect set of parents that she can manipulate into giving her anything she wants, doing what she says? How would we even stop her if she wanted more than what we could give?”

Monica placed a hand to his chest. “Dearest, you saw the photographs, the awards, the notes from teachers…She’s a good kid, she’s everything we could’ve asked for in a child. And from what Drake told us, she sent us away for our safety. All she did was in the name of love. Wouldn’t we want a daughter like that to call our own?”

He met her hand with his own, patting it and interlacing his fingers with hers. “What if we’re better off like we are? Why ruin it with harsh truths? We’ve made a life here, we have friends, we’re part of the community. Give it all up and disrupt our natural balance for what?...Names we vaguely recall, a home that really isn’t ours, and a daughter who can just manipulate the world around her with the wave of a wand or whatever that thing is.”

She smiled sadly. “You always were the practical one, logical and looking at the bigger picture. But you know just as well as I do, that we’ve always felt something was off. This is why. The answer to it all sits in our living room, ready to return it to us.”

An exhausted sigh escaped him. “I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear about a life we once had when I’ve enjoyed the one I’m currently living. Wake up tomorrow and find I’ve been in a dream all along?” he shook his head. “I’m just not sure I can handle it.”

She could understand the trepidation, the nervous anticipation, the revelation just waiting to be revealed. Her nerves were just as rattled as his, but her feelings were more led by curiosity and that tug in her heart when that girl looked at her and called her Mum. It felt so right, like a final piece sliding into place to make a complete picture. There was nothing she had wanted more in life than to be a mother, and here was a girl claiming to be her own. 

Tomorrow would be a day for them all.  
…………………………

It was slow going at first, there was so much to cover, so he started where it made sense for the both of them; his trial. 

“They never informed me of their decision.” She said, feeling ever so foolish for letting herself be taken for granted by a system she trusted to be fair. “They thanked me for my testimony, shook my hand, and shooed me out the door with the promise that they’d have your best interest in mind.”

She lowered her head and slid the now empty mug between her hands. He watched the guilt weigh her down.

“I never said exile. I wanted you out of Azkaban so you could return to Hogwarts with us…I even asked Headmistress McGonagall to make you Head Boy alongside me. I had this grand notion of us being symbols of peace in her inter-house unity project.”

“Wait, what?” he implored her to elaborate. He raked a hand through his hair, noticeably longer. “You did what?”

She adverted her eyes after taking in the sight of his shaggy locks. He was such a sight to behold now, tanned skin in comparison to his paler hue. Hair that had taken on a golden tone from being out in the sun instead of years shut in a windowless dorm of the castle. Growth on his face that gave him a far more softer appearance than the sharp angled features she recalled sneering at her all their years as classmates. Muscles that couldn’t hide themselves under that tank top and button up shirt with the cuffs rolled back to his elbows. Her eyes had lingered on the prominent Dark Mark on his left forearm. Faded somewhat, but still there. She wouldn’t have recognized him, didn’t actually, until he opened his mouth and addressed her by her surname. The man that sat across her from her parents’ dining table was virtually a stranger, at least in appearance.

He laughed, snapping her out of her musings. “I knew you’d be Head Girl.” he stated, as if saying ‘I told you so’ to a friend. “Potter Head Boy then? Weasley captain of the Quidditch team?”

Her brows furrowed. “No actually. Michael Corner was Head Boy, not a bad roommate actually. They didn’t return for an eighth year. They got offers to jumpstart straight into the Auror department and tracked down more Death Eaters with information you provided. So, thank you for that…” she added. 

He blinked a few times. “They…didn’t stay with you? I thought nothing would come in between the infallible Golden Trio.” He crossed his arms and chewed the inside of his cheek. The entire past year as he struggled to live, she’d been back at school, and not even with her best friends.

“Yeah well, things change.” She mused bitterly. No need to go into detail as to all the ways why. Not like he’d really care anyways. Not when it concerned Harry or Ron.  
“You haven’t.” it just slipped out before he could stop himself.

Her head popped up.

“I uh…I mean…I definitely recognized you.” He sputtered, growing hot under his collar. “Unlike me…you know…looking like this…” he waved his hand up and down to encompass his person. “Your Pops is quite the taskmaster.”

She snorted a little laugh. Her father had always been a firm but fair teacher. He would walk you through the task as many times as needed but he expected it to stick and result in perfect recollection afterwards. Hermione had taken his stern teaching as a challenge, always striving to supersede his expectations and feeding her pride when she did. He wasn’t all that different from Professor Snape actually, only he did delegate praise accordingly where Severus merely scowled.

“You survived.”

“Oh they refused to let me give up.” He chuckled back. “Not that I’m the quitting sort when survival is on the line.” The moment he said that he sobered up, realizing his actions in the war had been just that, he did what he had to do to survive.

There was an awkward beat of silence, eyes dancing off to focus on anything else other than the person across from them. He coughed and scooted his chair back and began collecting their dishes. She was about to protest but stopped herself. She was the guest here, not the other way around. It was oddly fascinating to see him move around the kitchen so fluidly, and turn on the tap to begin rinsing them off. What would Narcissa say if she could see him now? Suddenly, she was struck with the upmost desire to tell him everything about her time with his mother, but they’d barely begun covering how he ended up with hers.

At least with dishes in hand, he could focus on anything other than the lovely woman in the room. She was even more gorgeous in person, more than he last remembered, more than he imagined to begin with. Her hair was more lively, her freckle-kissed face rosy and clean, her eyes bright as ever. With every word out of her mouth he couldn’t help but let his line of sight be drawn to her lips. He had to busy himself with something or get caught staring. That was the last thing he needed, for her to think he was being a perverted prat-in her parent’s home, for goodness sake!-and yet she seemed totally oblivious to her own beauty.

Well, she’d never been one to flaunt her sexuality in the first place. Uniform strictly to code and even her casual wear had her appropriately covered. She wasn’t here to flirt. She obviously never expected his presence. He would bet that she had planned to never see him again in her entire life, and yet here they were.

“How did they find you?” she broke the silence. “You said you were doing a fine enough job dying before they pitied you.”

Of course she would remember that bit.

He shook his hands free of the water and dried them. “Oh you know what they say, they can take the boy out of England but you can’t take England out of the boy…I was dehydrated, starving, homeless, delirious with fever and on the brink of death.” He paused for a second before finally turning away from the sink. “I’d barely made it two weeks before losing it all: job, flat, money…still had no idea how to do single muggle task without fucking it up. The Ministry set me up for failure, that’s what.” He leaned back against the countertop, hands gripping the edge. “Bet that’s what they wanted all along. Me dead but not on English soil so it wouldn’t cause a sensation in the papers.”

Hermione’s eyes took on a glossy shine and she brought a hand to her mouth and wiped it against her nose. He would’ve been dead long before she’d even stepped foot back in Hogwarts had it not been for that intervention on her parent’s behalf. Narcissa’s worst fear nearly had become reality.

“Woke up here, they told me I’d been drifting in and out for two days. Sunburnt, weakened, penniless…I had nothing Granger. Not a single cent, got robbed to top off my shitty week.” He closed his eyes and swallowed his pride. “They offered and I had nothing left to lose, so I stayed.”

“And now you play guitar in pubs?”

He snorted a laugh. “Oh that, that was a bit of fun that kinda took off. Wendell, he gave me the guitar. I learned to play, I already knew piano. After being goaded into an open mic night everyone just insisted I continue. Next thing I know I got two blokes willing to join up with me and it’s now our regular thing. The tips help.”

Tips. 

Draco Malfoy was now literally working for tips.

“So yeah, take it all in, savor the knowledge Granger. The Slytherin Prince has fallen off his throne and now is a blue-collar bloke.” He scoffed with disdain and crossed his arms again. Maybe if he laid it all at her feet she could get her laughs out and they’d never have to discuss it again.

But he wasn’t prepared for her response.

“Where’s the loo?” she asked, voice cracked with emotion.

He pointed to the hall, identifying the door with hardly a breath out of his mouth before she was on her feet and dashing for the room, shutting the door behind her and quickly turning on the tap. But he heard the distinct sounds of crying hidden within it. Even the flush of the toilet couldn’t disguise it all. He felt his gut twist into knots knowing she was in there, trying to hide the fact that she was bawling her eyes out. Was she crying because of him? His story of utter failure at basic living that left him nearly for dead.  
Those must be tears of pity. Fitting though, since he was a pathetic waste.  
…………………….

Time was irrelevant as she wept in the safe solitude of the cozy bathroom, having collapsed to her knees on the plush rug, pulling her hair off to the side as she leaned over the porcelain bowl and heaved up the tea and toast she’d just shared with Malfoy. The realization of the harsh reality he’d been thrust into, dumped in the deep end of a pool and expected to swim had hit hard. Harder than that blast from Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries back in fifth year.

Anger mixed with pity and horror, churning like the thick concoction of Polyjuice potion in her gut, poisoning the pleasant expectation she had of coming here and being face to face with her family and the eventual off-chance of ever seeing Malfoy again. She figured, after returning to England with her parents that she’d storm into the Ministry and get Harry to help her dig into the transcripts and see if they could uncover something. She expected the search through paperwork to take a couple of weeks, maybe a month tops, then a few more months of scouring the countryside of wherever he had been sent, silently observing his life and trying to find a way to nonchalantly insert herself with an “accidental” run-in that would lead to a follow up and then become a routine thing, slowly building up into a friendship where she could gradually get him to see her as more than that girl he picked on in school.

Everything was bolloxed beyond imagination.

A gentle rap on the door pulled her from her downward spiral, making her jump up to her feet and quickly wipe at her face before she registered who it was on the other side. Of course it was him, her parents had gone to bed nearly an hour ago. She splashed some water over her mouth and eyes, trying to wash away the evidence of her lamentations, and nearly fell apart once more when she heard him inquire about her well-being.

I’m not alright. I’m fucking rattled and overwhelmed. 

“I’m alright!” she called as she turned off the tap and toweled her face. She fumbled the towel as she slid it back onto the rack and then yanked the door open in her rush to escape the tiny confinement, only to slam into a solid form. “Oooof!”

Hands grabbed her shoulders to steady her, a grunt coming from him as she collided face first with his chest. He felt like solid stone. One of her hands came up to cradle her nose and she let the watery eye look of her features play into that as she stepped back from him. “Well I guess I deserve that.” She muttered, touching the offended appendage gingerly.

“Sorry bout that.” He said, craning his neck down to take a better look. “At least you’re not bleeding.” Without even giving it a second thought he moved some hair out of her face that had fallen over in their collision. She flinched but didn’t pull away. Wide brown eyes glanced up at him with alarm. He couldn’t stop himself from staring right into them, falling into the stare of earthy orbs with a lump in his throat and a heart that couldn’t decide if it wanted to beat out of his chest or stop completely.

“You…uh…” she sniffed, closing her eyes for a second to get her bearings. “Have a hard body-er I mean, it felt hard. No, I didn’t mean it like that. Just uh…your muscles…and bone. Yes bone! I ran into your sternum. Very hard.” She patted at his chest for emphasis. “Like rock.” She nervously laughed. “Oh good grief…please move?”

For a moment he considered staying there, just to see how much further her foot could fit into her mouth with her nervous ramblings, but now was not exactly the right time to evoke old habits and rile her up. Not with slumbering parents just a door away. It was certainly a rare treat, when had he ever seen the almighty Granger so flummoxed?

“You act like you’ve never touched a bloke’s chest before Granger.” He replied calmly with just a hint of smarminess. “Course there’s muscle and bone.” He added when her brow furrowed at being the butt of a joke. He tapped the spot she touched, bringing her eyes back to it. “Earned this with all the hard work I’ve done around here.”

She swallowed thickly and shuffled her feet to the side. The bathroom was one place she didn’t want to be caught in a compromising situation in-let alone whom she was with. But the insufferable git that she knew from childhood had returned, of course it would, right when she was at a low point. He was a damn shark, sensing blood in the water and now was circling.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She retorted, expecting him to start listing all the things he’d done to prove his new muggle lifestyle when in a fit of insanity he lifted his shirt to reveal his firm row of abs, lined with faint scars of course. Scars she knew were there-in theory, after tearing Harry a new ass for using an unknown spell in a duel-but had never seen in person. And why would she? When would there ever be an opportunity to see a bare-chested Draco Malfoy? 

Apparently standing in her parent’s bathroom was where.

She couldn’t help the gasp that slid past her parted lips and the hitch of breath that followed as her heart suddenly pounded erratically in her chest. Letting her hand fall from where it had been cradling her nose, it now rested against her bosom in some vain attempt at calming her nerves. He watched as her pupils dilated, she liked what she saw. And that fact alone made him continually brave enough in his behavior for him to take the hand that had previously patted his chest and bring it to touch the skin beneath the shirt. Her fingers were slightly cold from just recently being in water, but they were welcomed against his burning skin.

“You feel that?” he asked, leading her hand over his navel. “That’s the Linea Alba.” He doubted she was even hearing him with how frozen she was except for the quivering hand in his. She was avoiding his eye and trying to do the same to his torso. “Proof enough for ya?”

All she could do was nod and feel like an airhead.

But she’d be damned if she let him think he had some upper hand on her. She flexed her fingers and drew her fingertips inward, dragging her nails across his stomach in a quick slash downward, making him release her hand and jump back, giving her the space she needed to slip past him and out of the bathroom. She stormed into the living room and took a calming breath before he returned to verbally engage her once again.

“Kitten has claws.” He joked as if she hadn’t just torn four red lines against his white skin with deadly accuracy.

“I have more than just claws in my arsenal if you ever do something like that again.” She warned.

He merely chuckled. “Is that a threat or a promise? Just so I know if I should bring out the handcuffs next time?” 

She spun on him with terrifying speed and pointed on said clawed finger in his face. “Do NOT be a disgusting prat my in parent’s home Malfoy or I will make you suffer.”

He stepped up to her, never so brave to do it when they were kids but damned if he was going to now that she was here after this long year. “You couldn’t possibly make me suffer more than I have already Granger but you’re welcome to try.” They were chest to chest now, his neck craned and head dipped low so that his voice carried not only over her head and tickled her ear but so that the words were only heard between the two of them. No need to wake the already emotionally exhausted parental unit. 

“I haven’t seen you in a whole year and you can’t even go one hour without becoming the jerk you’ve always been.”

“Just like old times yeah?” he laughed, sending a breath over her ear that tickled and blew a strand of hair back into her face. “Otherwise this whole scenario might not even feel real, would it?”

Surprisingly, she tilted her head up. Now their faces were as close as they’d ever been. Eyes that had always seemed like grey storm clouds were now gleaming silver, like liquid mercury. And their intense gaze felt like drops had burned their way right in through her skin and into her soul. “I certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of you being here.” She replied honestly.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to.” He answered softly. He never diluted himself into thinking she’d ever wanted anything to do with him. It saved him just a shred of heartache. “But I have been expecting you. Anticipating your return ever since I discovered those boxes.” His confession slipped out so easily, like it was the most natural thing for him to say.

“And…?” she prompted, whole body wound tight at whatever his next words would be.

“I think your mother’s right, there is too much to go over tonight and we should rest. It would be better to go over all this in the morning after a hearty meal.”

That was certainly not what she expected. Her body loosened as her stance deflated, and she felt an odd sense of disappointment seep into her gut. What had she expected anyways?

“Would you like to be on the couch, or my bed?”

The question jarred her; made her cheeks flush and heart practically leap out of her throat. Never in her whole life did she ever expect that sentence to come from his mouth, directed at her! She gave him a quick once-over and then flicked her eyes at the couch. The measurements in her head didn’t add up.

“You won’t fit.” she stated, watching that devilish smirk dance across his face before he composed himself. She was unaware of the innuendo. 

“Ah but you are the guest, and it is gentlemanly to let the lady have the bed. It’s your choice Granger.” He answered smoothly. Whatever he had been thinking was hidden away.  
What size bed did he have? Was it big enough for two? Would he offer to share-what the hell am I even thinking? She shook her head clear and coughed into a fist to get a hold of herself. “I think I can survive a night in the living room.” She declared, leaving all other nights unmentioned yet open for debate.

He’d keep that little nugget of information for later.

“Well then, suit yourself.” He patted the top of her head like she was a little child. “G’night Granger.” 

She remained stiff and stoic as he parted with a cheeky smile before sauntering down the hall and taking a door in the hallway, not once turning back before it closed behind him. A long held breath whooshed out of her lungs before she let her legs become jelly and slunk onto the couch with exhaustion. Nothing about this entire encounter had been anything she prepared herself for, and she was prepared for a lot. But not this. Certainly not this.

All she could think about as she swiftly changed out her muggle clothing and into some sleepwear and preparing her makeshift bed was what was going to happen tomorrow. Would her parents rescind their offer to have her restore their memories? Would they forgive her? Would they reject all magic and refuse to return to England? Would they continue to let Draco stay with them, knowing what he had done before?

Everything was so uncertain and unclear, she expected to toss and turn with unsettled thoughts drifting in her mind all night but easily the exhaustion took and pulled her under shortly after she tucked herself in.

Her last fleeting thought was that she was grateful she left Crookshanks behind with Narcissa, knowing he was in excellent care. Heaven forbid anything happen to him with Hamlet and his exuberant way of greeting people. She doubted Crookshanks would’ve been received in the same manner.  
…………………….


	14. I Bet You're Wondering Why I'm Here...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a restless night, the Wilkins/Grangers are willing to hear the story Hermione has to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music:  
> Linger by The Cranberries

It had been a facsimile of sleep for the household. The only one who had truly rested was the dog. Hermione’s exhaustion had eventually made her succumb to slumber, but not after a good long think that had more or less been her processing her shock at discovering Draco not only being alive, but living with her family and how it came to be.  
The confused and weary couple had lain in bed, voicing their concerns to each other, broken by long pauses of silence that could’ve been mistaken for sleep until the other spoke up, posing yet another question or query as if the pause had never occurred, trading back and forth of everything they’d known and were now exposed to. They hadn’t had a restless night like that in decades, back when they were still dating, discussing the pros and cons of taking their relationship further by moving in together before getting married.

And Draco, after slipping away from the living room with every ounce of his energy focusing on making it to his room without giving into the temptation of looking back, leaned against his bedroom door and exhaled the longest breath of his life, raked his hands through his hair and braced himself as his knees started to give out on him. Not only was Hermione here, in the flesh-damn good looking flesh-but she was still every bit that fiery wild-haired witch that had driven him to insanity all through school.

And just what had he been thinking? Lifting his shirt like that to show off the abs he’d never had in Quidditch? Let alone taking her hand and making her touch him…that soft, cool hand he felt quiver against his skin, creating sparks of electricity in his blood. That feisty cat clawed him with well-manicured nails, something she’d never had during school as far as he could tell, always ink smudged and straining under the weight of the heavy books she carried.

God, had he always noticed her hands?

He ran his own hand along his stomach, feeling the sensitive row of red marks from his foolhardy and brash action. At least it was proof that he wasn’t dreaming. Flopping onto his bed and sighing heavily, he forced himself to relax, telling himself over and over again that he had prepared for this day, this moment, this eventual conclusion.  
…………………………………

Motherly instinct had Monica rising out of bed first. She tip-toed into the living room, glancing curiously at the young woman on her couch, curled up around a pillow, hair all over the place, arm up over her head displaying a twisted and crude serious of slashes spelling out what looked like….MUDBLOOD.

The word, while foreign, still caused the same effect in a muggle; disgust.

She stood there, hands braced on the back of the sofa, taking in the hideous pink lines haphazardly scratched against normally peachy hued skin, remembering the words from Draco’s fiery outburst a week prior about watching a girl be tortured in his home. Why she was tortured was never fully explained, it wasn’t exactly the most comfortable subject to discuss in the first place.

Something about the word rang a tiny bell in the back of her mind.

Like, she’d maybe not heard it so much as remembering seeing the word written…

The letters!

She quickly dashed over to the three boxes and shuffled through the one that held a bundle of parchment written letters wrapped in a red ribbon. She thumbed through, feeling like she was on the hot trail of a mystery when Draco made his usual ungraceful entry into the living room, hair sticking in all directions, scratching at his chest and smacking his lips as he yawned-a little too loudly-and Monica immediately hushed him with a frantic wave of her hand.

He froze in place, wondering what had gotten into her as she was flipping wildly through the old letter bundle-which he had snoopily read-and cocked his head. The resemblance was there alright, that determined fiery gleam in her eye, the speed in which they darted across page after page, the way she poised her finger in mid-air to flick onto the next. It was all very Grangeresque, mannerisms he’d noticed in the library or in class. But what was Monica hunting for?

He’d only taken a step or two when Monica slammed the bundle back into the box and glared at him. His blood turned to ice. He knew that look.

“You.” She whispered, angered and disappointed all in the same.

He whooshed out a breath. “Yes.” He answered her unspoken question, whatever it was, whatever she’d put together, he knew he’d done it. There was no denying it.  
Hermione stirred, shifting the heavy tension between the woman and the young man. Monica pointed to the kitchen, a very distinct ‘Get in there’ directive that he did not hesitate in the slightest to obey. He could feel her mahogany eyes spear him in the back of his pale head as he slid into the designated spot and braced himself to be beaten with a skillet.

“It was you, wasn’t it? The boy who called her that?” she hissed in a whisper-yell, coming up to the stove and plunking the kettle onto a burner.

He flinched at the sound, head down as he felt the undulating waves of motherly disappointment radiate off her. It was apparently a talent all mothers possessed despite their backgrounds; his mother was skilled in it as well. As she opened a cabinet and fetched the feared skillet, he stood his ground. There was no more running left in him, now that his past had followed him halfway around the world.

“Yes.” He confessed quietly. “A slur my father used often and I stupidly emulated, unaware of the lasting pain it would cause.”

“Get the eggs.” She said, clicking the burner on and scooping a dollop of the room temperature butter and slapping it into the pan. “Bacon too.”

He obliged, then strolled over to the coffee maker and filled the carafe with water and scooped in the already ground up beans. He heard her sigh and tsk, shaking her head as she cooked. If she thought any louder he’d go deaf. 

“Ma’am, I can’t apologize enough. Especially for actions I had no control over. That scar was not my doing.”

“We’ll discuss this later, when and if I do get the memories of my other life.” She replied in that tone that definitely translated into ‘you’re still in trouble but for now there are more important things going on’. It still surprised him how similar mothers were, muggle or magical. “Now wake up our guest and set out some towels for her.”

His eyebrows rose. “You want me to wake her? After she punched me in the face yesterday?”

“If she punches you again then that means you haven’t learned to properly dodge.” She quipped, pouring the whisked egg mix into the pan and sprinkled some pepper over with all the concentration of a professional chef.

He flung his head back and sighed, knowing it was no use arguing with her and marched willingly into the lion’s den. He figured if he remained behind the back of the couch, then he’d be at a safe distance from her fist of fury. Since her left arm was propped up over her face and the closest part of her to him, he figured a little shake to the limb would be harmless.

In a nanosecond, he felt the collar of his shirt gripped, yanked down and over the edge of the couch, his body fly through the air before landing flat on his back and the pressure of a little form straddling him, right fist reared back and ready for another strike.

“FUUHUCK!” he heard himself cry out, although it certainly didn’t sound like his voice with all the air whooshing out of his lungs.

“Language!” Monica admonished from the kitchen, removing the pan from the stove and steeping away to see the scene. “My dear, please don’t break him, after all, he’s quite handy around the house.” She stated calmly, as one would to a child with a toy they were being too rough with.

Hermione took a moment to take in her surroundings, a comforts and coziness of a living room, not the forest, not running away from Snatchers. She looked down, noticing the prone form of a handsome blond man underneath her, her left hand splayed across his chest and her right pulled back to strike. His heart was beating a mile a minute, eyes as wide as they ever could be, cheeks flushed and mouth parted in utter shock. It was then that she noticed just how she was sitting on him, and what she felt underneath her when he took in a deep breath to recollect the air he’d lost.

“What. The. Hell…..” a voice coming from the hallway slowly enunciated. 

Hermione’s head shot up to meet the bewildered and clearly-not-awake-enough-for-this-shit face of her father, with an eyebrow arched at the display sprawled on his living room floor.

“Alright, I should’ve made myself more clear.” He growled with a throat cough. “When I suggested there be no fighting last night, that also bleeds over into the morning, before I’ve even had a chance to stretch and scratch my arse, let alone have a fresh cuppa coffee-and that bacon that better not be burning because of this.”

Monica’s laugh could be heard from the kitchen, over the sizzle of the bacon and beeping of the coffee maker. “You like it crispy, don’t lie!”

“Can someone, oh I don’t know, tell this heathen to release me?” Draco suggested to the adults, hoping one of them would reign in their feral daughter.

Wendell shot him a pitying glance. “You got yourself there, surely you can get out.” He then met Hermione’s eyes. “Don’t break anything in the process. Also, ten minute limit on the shower, hot water doesn’t last that long.” He then strolled into the kitchen and exclaimed that the bacon was reaching that cusp of being burnt, followed by Monica’s bored sounding retort that he could cook his own damn ham slabs if he was going to continue being nitpicky.

“Granger!” Draco hissed, having called her name once already before she snapped out of it and finally deigned to grace him with her attention. “Either take your shot or get the hell off me.”

Her right fist unclenched and lowered. “Uh…sorry about that…” she sheepishly apologized, all while Draco was fighting every urge to grab her thighs and flip her over and pin her to the floor. Every possible unsexy thought he could conjure was playing over and over as he willed his cock into monk-like obedience and remain down. Heaven help him the instant she felt anything move. He could see it in her eyes, that distance they had been momentarily lost in, something from the war. Even a year later, the memories popped up, the nightmares hung close by.

“I didn’t mean to…” he said, his right hand coming up and stroking across the top of the hand still splayed on his chest. She was still, but allowed him to remove her palm from his ribcage and turn it over. His other hand came up and tentatively feathered across her wrist. His fingertips hovered at the edge of the scar, daring not to touch the offended skin. “If I hurt it…”

She yanked her hand back and then pushed off him, stepping back and staring, willing herself to breathe through her nose and calm her raging mind. During her final year, she’d taken up meditation and yoga to quell the panic attacks and anxiety when something would trigger her. Having the battle take place at the very same place she was living and studying didn’t help. But the main thing that set her off was anything coming remotely close to touching her left arm-especially the dreaded scar-even gentle gestures had her clenching her teeth.

“Just don’t touch.” She states firmly, in a voice trying to not let on how much it rattles her. 

“Duly noted.” He responded with deadpan sincerity. 

She abruptly grabbed her knapsack and trudged into the bathroom without another word. Draco heaved a sigh and pushed himself up on his elbows, wondering in the hell she’d managed to fling him head over heels across the couch and onto the floor in one fell swoop. He was mere inches away from the coffee table.

“Floor that comfortable?” Wendell asked, coming in with a mug in hand.

“Quite.” Draco instantly snarked. “So much in fact that I think I’ll just stay here until I die.”

Wendell clicked his tongue and took a sip of the hot brew. “Get used to being walked on then.” He replied dryly. And with that the man left him to scramble to his feet and scrape whatever remaining pride he had left up and swallow it back down. This day was off to a fantastic start.

She didn’t shower, just merely threw water on her face, rubbed deodorant under her arms and spritzed herself with a bottle of body spray. She fought with her hair for the rest of the duration of her primping, pulling it into a messy bun before extracting a causal outfit consisting of a bell sleeved V-neck style blouse and a knee length cotton skirt that she always paired up with it, they just fit so well. She wasn’t sure if the house rules allowed for wearing shoes indoors so she remained barefoot. Then she closed up and shrunk down the suitcase and plopped it into the backpack, tucking the wand into the side pocket for easy access.

Steeling her nerves, she exited the bathroom and deposited her pack against the back of the couch, following through with clearing up the pillows and blanket when a cold nose touched the back of her leg and she let loose an ear splitting shriek that sent Hamlet whimpering under the dining table and Draco barreling through his bedroom door, clad only in the denims he’d just managed to slip into before the alarming scream.

Wendell cracked into laughter from his spot at the table, hand reaching under and comforting the terrified dog and Monica asking if she was okay.

Hermione had a hand on her chest, trying to calm her heart when the familiar snicker she’d spent six years hearing invaded her senses. She spun with a fully fledge retort ready to spar with but it caught in her throat at the sight of a half-dressed Draco Malfoy….shirtless….wearing Levi jeans…hair sexily messy…

It wasn’t right.

He shouldn’t look that good.

Or…that sinful.

She flushed, spun back around and refolded the blanket. Then she promptly turned on her heel and entered the kitchen, asking for a mug. Monica, potholders donning each hand, was in the middle of extracting rolls, simply said “Up there.” and gestured to a cabinet. Hermione sighed; she was going to have to guess.

Wendell sat and observed. Hamlet panted. Draco slipped his shirt on.

She spent three seconds eliminating the obvious and selected a cabinet, opening it up to indeed find it filled with drinkware. Only problem was, the mugs were out of reach. On her toes, her fingers merely glanced the handle of the closest one. Then she heard that ever-so-pleased-with-himself chuckle and saw a long arm reach over her head and select the very mug she’d nudged. It came down slowly, with a breath tickling the back of her neck.

Oh heaven help me, I will kill this fool.

She watched the mug come around, following it, turning her body and facing Draco as he brought it to his chest. “Thank youuuuu.” She drawled as he turned away to the coffee maker, pouring himself a mug and plopping in four sugar cubes.

“Sorry luv, this mug is mine.” He smirked and she could’ve shot him dead for the wink he tossed her way at her indignation. Didn’t matter that it actually had the Draco constellation on it, with the image appearing after hot water was added.

Monica waited until he removed the mug from his lips, bringing it down to chest level before smacking him upside the head from behind. “Get her a cup Drake.”

It took everything Hermione had to not burst into snorting laughter, but her lip still curled up despite herself. Astonishingly, Draco didn’t break into a sneer or eye roll, instead, while keeping his stormy eyes locked onto her own, he leaned into her personal space, his arm trailed upwards, and retrieved a mug for her, bringing it down slowly as if he had all the time in the world and there weren’t two set of eyes following his every move.

God, he’s doing that Westley thing from-

“As you wish.” He said, placing it in Hermione’s limp hand and then brushed by her as he joined Wendell at the table.

Oh he just DID NOT….

Thank god he put a shirt on….

Little good that does now that I know what’s underneath…

“Coffee?” Monica asked, holding the carafe up.

“Yes!” she squeaked, surprised she even had the cognitive ability to answer after that…whatever the hell that was.

She took the first sip and scrunched her face up in utter disgust and surprise, now fully alert and grimaced as she swallowed it, gagging afterwards. Her rookie misstep brought out a round of good natured chuckles as Monica poured in a little milk and offered her sugar.

She took two cubes, then stirred it, watching the mixture cloud over into a creamy tan concoction. It definitely went down better this time. At Monica’s insistence, she took a seat at the table, deciding that being across from Malfoy was better than next to him. At least she could kick him properly if he pulled anything. The food was heaping and steaming and smelling heavenly, taking her right back to the Great Hall. The only thing missing was the pumpkin juice.

Hamlet nudged against her in his usual rounds for under the table hand-outs and she stuck her hand out to let him sniff and lick at it in the normal canine greeting until she was certain she was accepted, then with inquisitive look at both adults, with their nod of approval in return, selected a strip of bacon and snuck it to him.

“Who’s a good boy?” she cooed, adoring his lolling tongue and one black patch over his eye, making him look like a little pirate.

“Oh there she goes again, befriending creatures of lesser intelligence.” Draco smirked. “She does that you know.”

The Celtic Moon Border Collie cocked his head as Hermione narrowed her eyes in a scowl. “There he goes again; insulting those he thinks has lesser intelligence. He does that you know.” She shot back, tossing his barb like a boomerang and nailing him with it.

“Oh you two must’ve been a delight in school.” Wendell remarked. “Your poor teachers.”

“Depends on who you ask.” Draco said at the same time Hermione answered with “They played favorites.”

Draco scoffed. “Ha! Who do you think was everyone’s favorite?”

“Well the only time you were someone’s favorite was if they happened to be your godfather, or in league with the dark lord.” She retorted, the horror of what she just said following the instant she heard it, and the heads that turned in her direction.

A deadly silence followed.

“Wow.” Draco said quietly. “I was cracking a joke but you never could take one of those could you?” he shook his head. “You really have the nerve to bring that up, day one? Just throw it out there so everyone knows I was a piece of shit and you were everyone’s little angel?” He pushed his chair back. “And after everything you said at my trial….”

Hermione felt gutted with the hurtful look he had, that she knew was genuine. But there was no taking back the bitter words. And seeing how Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were regarding her, she knew that he had some point opened up to them about his actions…

“I didn’t mean it like that.” She protested.

“You don’t want me here. I get it. After all, who was I but some elitist snob who set out to make every day of yours miserable? But to stoop that low…I at least thought better of you.” 

His words cut like a knife.

“Alright, let’s each take a step back and breathe before we say anything else we might regret.” Wendell ordered, hands spread out to each opposing figure at the table. “Clearly, there is a lot of bad blood here. Hence why we’re having a nice breakfast and coffee so we can ease into discussing it.”

“I think we’re past the point of easing when someone’s still holding onto their old school prejudices.” Draco sneered at her.

“Oh that’s bloody rich coming from the likes of you!” Hermione jumped to her feet, hands pressed onto the tabletop. “You never could resist finding a moment to nettle me and Harry and Ron! And just how do you think you’d be acting if they were here?”

“Fucking hell Hermione does everything in your life revolve those two twats?” he threw his hands in the air. “Those brainless fucks would’ve never survived the war without you and you damn well know it, but can you even hold your own without having to bring them into as your bloody backup? Like I give a Merlin forsaken damn about what they think of me or how’d they act if they were with you! They don’t have any jurisdiction over my life.”

“Hey now, honestly, let’s back off.” Monica jumped in.

“No, let’s get it all out in the open shall we?” Draco continued, too hurt to care where it would lead him. “Go ahead Golden Girl; tell them how my father slipped your best friend a cursed journal that nearly drained her lifeforce away? How I called you every terrible name I could think of because you were supposed be some stupid waste of space incapable and undeserving of your magic but yet you were the top of every class? How I busted your secret dueling club and took this-” he yanked up the sleeve of his white shirt and revealed the mark, “because my father failed his mission and I had to prove myself man enough to fill his shoes at bloody sixteen, tasked with killing a man and letting killers into the school? How I have the blood of fifty or so students, teachers, and the like on my hands because of it? You think I haven’t told them this already, telling them that I don’t deserve the kindness they bestowed to their daughter’s school bully….”

He wound down as the tears pooled in his eyes, in everyone’s as silence overtook the table. Even Hamlet sat and darted his head back and forth between the humans, wondering what was next.

Monica and Wendell had heard it all before, yes, in little moments when he’d been vulnerable enough to share, but never so much and in such vehemence, such raw anguish.  
Hermione lifted the sleeve of her shirt, bearing her own mark. “I never blamed you for this.” she softly stated. The atmosphere of the room had become too heavy for regular voices. “It happened, just like yours. Beyond our control. Under duress. Lives depended on us in those moments. You protecting your parents, and I protecting Harry…..You protected him too you know. You warned me about the Death Eaters during the World Cup. You tore that page about the Basilisk.”

She watched his eyes widen at the mention of that.

“You had your moments, few and far, but they were enough. Enough to convince me that you were only doing what children do: listening to the influence of the adults around them. Just as I had done. By the time we knew better…our paths were too set to change.”

“My God…” Monica whispered. “What did they do to you?”

Hermione’s lips trembled. “They turned us into soldiers to fight a war that originally ended nearly twenty years prior…..We were all pawns.”

“I’m sorry.” Draco said. To whom, it didn’t matter. It was an apology for far too many people and for too many reasons.

“I’m sorry too.” Hermione echoed, eyes still meeting those wounded grey ones across the breakfast table. 

But he broke the eye contact from her, and then glanced at the people he’d begrudgingly started to love like his own family over the course of the past year. “I’ll just go. I have bag already packed.” He pushed away from the table and only managed to come around Monica’s side before Hermione jumped in front of him, hand out on his chest and eyes full of determination.

“No.” she commanded. “Don’t leave because of me. Because of our past. This has been your home for a year.”

“And these are your parents, not mine.” He shook his head. “Let me go Hermione. Just let it all go.”

“I won’t!” she cried, startling the three of them. “I was going to look for you…once I was done here….Go back to England and get Harry to help me, throw whatever fame cards we had to in order to get the documents. I was going to come FIND YOU Draco Malfoy. We are not done with our story. You’ve become such a part of my life that I simply had to see it through. I fought for your freedom by God!” she burst out, her hand clenched into a fist that pounded against a pectoral. 

Monica had turned her chair completely around so that she wouldn’t have to strain her neck. She did spare her husband a silent but meaningful gaze. Oh boy did these two young ones have history. Bad blood and all, there was something else here.

“And then what?” he prompted. “Become friends?”

Honestly, she didn’t know if she’d even get that far.

“You could never resist a lost cause.” He sighed, bringing his hand up and wrapping his fingers around her smaller fist. “Always fighting for someone else; Harry, elves, centaurs, and criminals like me.” Slowly he peeled her palm from his shirt, brought her knuckles up to his lips and asked, “But would I have deserved it?”

Wendell reached over and took his wife’s hand.

Hermione blinked away the tears that had been clinging to her lashes. “If you wanted it…Yes…”

His lips graced her first knuckle. “Your forgiveness?”

“Yes.”

He placed a kiss to the second knuckle. “Friendship?”

“Mmm hmm.”

They softly caressed across the third and fourth together. “And whatever would come to follow?”

Her breath hitched. Surely he didn’t mean…

“I-If it developed….” She stammered, hoping it was open enough that it didn’t let on to how much that fantasy had been running through her mind.

Monica squeezed her husband’s hand.

“I am a man Hermione, not a pity project.” He stated. As if it needed clarifying. “You can’t try to fix me and then walk away.”

“I wouldn’t.” she promised, her left hand coming up and grasping onto his. “I don’t abandon my friends….If you want to be friends….We can start over….a blank slate.”

“Just like that? All the years of bullshit, just swept off the table?” his tone was incredulous. It could never be that simple.

“If you mean it.” She countered, for she was not so foolish as to willingly let someone walk all over her time and time again because they said the magic word. “If you prove it.”

~ Do you think they’ve forgotten that we’re still sitting here? ~  
\- Quite possibly dear -

“Prove it.” He echoed with a sly chuckle. “I’m not sure I could reach the bar set by the Golden Girl. Despite being barely bigger than a pixie she has some high standards.”

“Then use some of that hot air inflating your ego and lift yourself Draco. I’m sure you’ve enough pride in spades to get yourself there.”

Hamlet let out a happy bark, startling the intimate scene. Draco and Hermione realized just how close they’d moved into each other, still holding hands, lost in each other’s enchanting eyes and magnetically pulled into their depths. Quickly disengaging hands and stepping back, they awkwardly adjusted their clothes and she fidgeted with her hair as he cleared his throat and turned back to the table.

“Oh yes, don’t mind us.” Her father joked. “Didn’t realize this would be a meal and a show.”

Monica playfully smacked his arm. “Come on you two; eat this meal I painstakingly slaved over a hot stove making before it gets cold.”

“Yes ma’am.” Draco said.

“Yes Mum.” Hermione replied, growing red in the face.  
………………………………

After the quiet and contently eaten meal was eaten in peace, Hermione insisted on helping Monica clear the table and take the dishes to the sink, even going so far as to start washing them before the woman could protest. Wendell had motioned for Draco to come outside with him as he picked up a tennis ball and instantly got Hamlet’s attention.  
Standing out a bit from the house, far enough to speak and not be overheard, Wendell tossed the ball and watched the colorful butt of fur dash off like a furry rocket. “That was quite the display.” He remarked dryly, leaving the proverbial door open for Draco to step through. As usual, Draco just lurked in the doorway.

“You’re really gonna stand there and tell me you didn’t just make a pass at my daughter?”

“You can’t claim parental bonds you don’t remember.” Draco stated stiffly.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be protective. Especially when she’s faced with someone with such a colorful past as yours…”

He kicked the dirt. “Are you telling me to stay away from her? Cause ya know, Hermione doesn’t respond well to being told anything.” Neither did he.

Hamlet came rearing back, ball in mouth, ready for Round Two. Wendell plucked the ball from the jaws of doggy toy death and hurled it into space once again.  
“Do I really need to tell you to not fuck it up?” the older man pierced him with a knowing glare. “You’ve pissed and moaned about how much of a right shit you were-to her-and while I may not know her I’ll be damned if I don’t lay down the law with you. You’ve kept yourself out of trouble so far; don’t go looking for it now that there’s a new player on the field.”

Draco barely suppressed the urge to laugh. “Man, can’t wait to meet the man who does remember his daughter if you’re like this.”  
………………………….

“So, was there ever anything between the two of you in your years of school?”

Hermione nearly dropped the plate. “Ha! As if. You heard him. He hated me in school.”

“You know that there is the thinnest line in existence between love and hate. And sometimes those that protest the loudest and most often are covering what they truly desire.”

She read his journal, there was one entry regarding Yule Ball and how he recounted her periwinkle dress, how it wasn’t an awful color and that he couldn’t think of anything to say when Pansy pointed it out to him. 

He wrote: Honestly, I can’t be that wizard who insults a witch at a ball, so I gave Granger a pass. Good thing too for not even Weaselbee could keep his jealousy in check and had to tear into her for dancing with Krum. I almost wanted to smack him on her behalf, he is her friend for Salazar’s sake and he alleged she consorted with the enemy? What a tosser! She’s better off without a git like that, pureblood or not.

“Well, that was quite the impassioned plea you made to him. It looked like you two were about to kiss had Hammy not interrupted.”

Again, a nervous chuckle erupted from the younger woman. “Right…” she flushed. “He just says things like that, knowing it riles me up.”

Monica just gave a non-committal nod and finished up the dishes as the men came back in with a happily exhausted Hamlet, flopping himself into his doggy bed with his ball. Wendell took his leather recliner and Draco sat in one corner of the couch stretching his leg out to take the length of the remaining cushions and heaved a sigh. When the ladies strolled in, Draco moved his leg but stayed in his slouching position, watching as Monica claimed her reading chair which left the couch for Hermione.

She sighed and took the furthest corner, practically hugging the arm rest and only taking up her single square of cushion. “Oh come on Granger, I’m not gonna bite.” He teased. “The couch already smells like you.” Hamlet jumped up and curled up against the blond giant. “Isn’t that right Ham-Ham? Dis couch smells like bushy-haired swots with ugly orange cats for friends.”

If it hadn’t been for the obvious lovey-dovey voice, and the dog being in between them, Hermione swore she would’ve flung herself across the middle cushion and started throttling him. But then it dawned on her how quiet the room was when she didn’t respond to his jab, with neither parent offering an icebreaker. The sudden realization fell on her like a ton of bricks; Draco was acting as the comedic relief to ease the awkward tension, throwing pebbles into the pond to cause the ripples.

“Right. Well then…I bet you’re wondering why I’m here… Questions?” she switched between looking at her mother and father, who oddly chose to be at opposite ends of the seating arrangements. This would be less awkward of they were both in the same area, like them being on the couch, and Draco…being…anywhere else. Him scratching the rump of the jerking with joy collie was becoming distracting.

“I have a question.” Wendell ventured first. “It will probably be a string of questions but I suppose the most pressing one is how did you erase nearly twenty years’ worth of memories and just how do you expect to return them?

She nodded. Good question. Damn good question.

“The spell to erase a memory is called Obliviate.” She started. She explained that it is normally used in single shots for small events, correcting a mistake and leaving someone with just a patch of forgetfulness that mainly goes unnoticed. Erasing entire years not only takes more power, but heavy concentration and determination. And nothing had been more detrimental than their safety. Failure wasn’t an option. “But you see…it’s been two years since I cast it, you’ve already rewritten new memories in since then, with this new life I gave you, and no one’s actually ever successfully reversed a case like this.”

“So there’s a chance….we may never actually get everything back?”

It hurt to confess to, but she was going to be honest. 

“There’s a risk of permanent damage? Confusion of identities? Short term memory loss?” the questions rolled forth.

Yes to all of it and more, it was dangerous and something that shouldn’t be so readily available to play around with. It was too strong a power that more often than not caused more problems. She had the thought to petition the Ministry to relabel Obliviate as an Unforgiveable considering the ramifications of potentially destroying entire lives with it. Such a note had been included in her papers when she gave the rough draft to Narcissa.

She wouldn’t put it past the woman to be reaching out to the most reputable solicitors and publishers the wizarding world had to offer, willing to pay any amount of fee for daring to print such controversial work. It would take a while to convince people to get comfortable with the idea…so more Malfoy money would have to pave the way.

“What were we like….as a family?” Monica asked, fiddling with her hair in the manner that reminded Draco all the more of Hermione when she was nervous about giving a presentation in front of the class.

Hermione’s eyes glistened. “We were happy.” She said sadly. “You two made Professor McGonagall proud for the muggleborns, she told me she’d never met a more understanding and open-minded pair of parents in all her years of introducing them into the wizarding world. Everything you saw, heard, and learned during my introduction and our trips to Diagon Ally and all the letters I wrote…you had faith. Unfathomable faith in me, in my abilities.”

Before she knew it, a fluffy white tissue was waving in the corner of her eye, catching her attention. When she turned, she was met with the soft material being pressed into her hand. Grey eyes just as soft met hers. 

“I can step out if you like…” he offered, now sitting upright even though Hamlet’s head still rested in his lap.

Without realizing it, her fingers had curled around a couple of his own as she grasped the tissue, yet to pull away, accepting the peace offering. Cleaning the slate, starting anew…

“Please…stay…” she whispered, the request in two tiny words yet weighing as heavily as a declaration of something more. Hamlet, sensing someone in need of comforting, brought his head up and promptly shimmied himself over to her side, throwing himself against her leg and nudging her with little puppy whimpers, pawing her leg for her to acknowledge his presence.

It had brought the immediate dislodging of their hands and severed the delicate thread of the little moment, reminding Hermione as to why there was a tissue in her hand in the first place, bringing it up to dab at her eye as she turned away from Draco and allowed Hamlet to administer kisses and whines for her to feel better.

“Sorry…” she addressed the room as a whole. “In theory I thought I’d be more composed, but I’m just becoming a mess. You guys were great parents. We did everything together, just us three peas in a pod. It was like we were best friends rather than parents and child.”

Hmmm, Draco thought, maybe that’s why she clung so closely to Potter and Weaslebee…they were a means to alleviate her loneliness, filling two slots that always had been occupied. They were by no means even close in comparison, but still, it was company… 

“Not that we didn’t have our arguments and differences now and then, but I was more often making you proud than anything else. I thought I’d be a dentist like the two of you were before my Hogwarts letter. You encouraged me to seek other professions, given my IQ and high marks in everything. I was far more suited for academics than the medical field.”

Professor Granger, oh I can easily picture that….

“If we were so understanding about the wizarding world-as you call it-then why erase our memories of everything and send us away? Surely, we could’ve worked something out?” Monica pressed.

Hermione smiled ruefully. “Oh Mum, I tried…but with Umbridge moving into the positon of Headmistress in fifth year, all forms of communication were monitored. Heck, I couldn’t even walk down the hall to the loo without being followed to make sure I wasn’t up to something. I couldn’t get word out to warn you, we already got busted when Harry was speaking with his godfather. Sixth year…well…things were just too dangerous. Family members of muggleborn students, oh, muggle is the term for a non-magical person, they were being killed.”

Both Monica and Wendell stiffened.

Draco kept his eyes on Hermione, saying nothing, barely moving other than breathing.

“Being friends with Harry Potter put a huge target on my back. He was listed as Undesirable #1 and I was right behind.” Then she released a mirthless laugh. “The only time I was ever second to him….” Draco smirked at that. “Because I had my own reputation. Everyone called me the Brightest Witch of my Age, and that isn’t just handed out lightly… While Harry might’ve been destined to face off with Voldemort, he certainly couldn’t have done it alone. Ron was our strategist; he was surprisingly adept at finding us the best vantage points and routes to take to avoid both the Death Eater camps and muggle towns. I on the other hand, planned for all contingencies; packing food medicine, clothes, and doing the research in order to find the next horcrux we had to destroy.”

The word ‘Horcrux’ had both of them shooting curious, eyebrow raising looks at her but figured the details didn’t matter so much as the whole of the story.

“And what of this boy, Harry?” Wendell inquired.

“He just needed to live, until the time was needed for him to die.” She answered without emotion.

Monica gasped.

“But, he lived. Again.” She continued. “The killing curse that struck him only killed the horcrux that was within him.” She turned to Draco. “Your mother, Voldemort sent her to check his body…and she asked Harry if you were still alive, if you were in castle. He answered and she lied, saying he was dead. She could’ve easily handed him over…” This time, she reached for his hand. “Like you, she lied to protect Harry, and gave us our victory. We couldn’t have won the war had it not been for the two of you.”

Guilt washed over him. “There also wouldn’t have been a war if it hadn’t been for my family.” Namely his father but it didn’t need saying.

“It was enough. Draco.” She squeezed his fingers softly. “It was enough for me.”

His lips parted but no words came out.

She smiled. “We can have our own talk later, yeah?” she let go of his hand, but the touch lingered.

“Yeah.” He choked out weakly. Just what in word would they say to each other? So much and probably not enough…

Hermione gave each of her parents a knowing glance. “Look, I made a decision that ended up saving your lives….our house was later raided and burned down… They eventually tracked down that information. So you’re alive, and you can decide if you’re happier with this new life…or I can try to give back what I took. The war is over, the Dark Lord is dead, his followers are in prison. It’s safe. And I have enough funds to rebuild our home…if you want to go back…”

Cold dread filled Draco. He never put it together that the muggle residence burned down in Hampstead was hers. It was just one of many. And her prophetic planning had saved them a terrible fate.

The air grew heavy. Eyes danced between the different faces. Mouths opened and closed without words. Hands fidgeted. Hamlet dozed off.

“That’s an awfully big decision to make.” Wendell replied lightly. 

The little brunette nodded. “I know. But at least it is a decision you get to make. Aunt Andromeda was right, telling me to see how your lives are here before I automatically start casting spells and uproot your lives completely. You may not want anything to do with me, after all this information has been dumped on you. And if that’s your choice….I’ll….” her voice grew thick and she swallowed a lump. “I’ll respect it. I won’t bother you.”

Aunt Andromeda? As in….my Aunt Andromeda? Draco’s mind raced.

“And where will you go?” her mother asked, ever the concerned one for someone’s safety.

A strange, weak and almost secretive smile graced her lips for a brief second before slipping away. “I have a most gracious host willing to give me room and board. I’ll be provided for, so don’t worry about my needs.”

For some reason Draco couldn’t fathom, he felt the urge to say ‘To hell with that, stay here anyways’ and swear that she wouldn’t have to give up anything in return for it. Who had she made this deal with? Was she under some obligation? A contract? She didn’t appear to be wearing anything that looked cursed, and she was far too sound of mind to be under Imperio…but someone apparently had a card to play against her if she came back empty-handed.

Came back…..Back to England….Where he was banished from….

She never meant to stay here. Her goal was to find them, restore them, return with them….

He was not a part of her plan. Her life. Just someone to find and clear her conscience with.

“Excuse me.” he said, getting to his feet and promptly exiting the room, causing Hamlet to jerk upright and immediately take his nice warm spot he vacated.

“I think this is a good time for a break.” The matriarch stated. “After all, we’ve put off some of the chores and there’s always something to do. Sheep and all.” She took to her feet, wiping her hands on her pants.

“Did you implant the desire to be sheep farmers in our minds too?” Wendell asked in a somewhat accusatory tone.

“No.” Hermione sighed. “That was something you said you wanted to do, for years. Retire and move to the Land Down Under and raise sheep. Get away from the hustle and bustle of big city living. Have a place for grandkids to run around on.”

“Oh.” He looked apologetic for insinuating. “I see…it’s just that…well…. Sheep stink.”

She snorted a breathy laugh through her nose. That they did.  
…………………………………..

It was nothing short of a miracle that the couple known as the Wilkins hadn’t fallen into a nervous breakdown, hysterics, and outright dismissal of the story woven by a young woman they felt an all too strange familiarity with despite not knowing her, or the young man they’d let into their home a year prior, with both of them claiming they went to a school for wizards and were in involved in a war, fighting on opposite sides of and had a contentious history long beforehand.

It honestly was quite a lot to swallow. And that wasn’t including the details of said war that led to her “memory wipe” of them and the implications of their fate had she not taken such actions. Draco’s abrupt exit had set the pace for them to follow, insisting that it was best to assimilate their current information before she say more. They also wanted privacy to discuss with each other. It didn’t go unnoticed although she feigned ignorance and asked if it was alright to walk about the property.

Thoroughly warned about snakes, spiders, scorpions and all other sorts of friendly Australian natives, Hermione put on a holster belt for her wand to be at her side and assured them she would be fine and promised to not go too far. 

“Oh, Hermione…you’ll want sunscreen.” Monica warned.

Smiling, she held up a little bottle she’d bought at the airport-because honestly who needed it in England?-and had it tucked away in her knapsack so it was at hand. She undid her messy bun and plopped a straw hat on her wavy strands and was surprised when Hamlet came up and plopped his tennis ball by her foot.

“Ok Hammy, let’s go for a run.” She said, glad at least someone was willing to hang out. 

Getting to see the property by daylight was something she’d planned for in the observing phase of her plan-which got botched even before she could start-and the feel of pure, unhindered Australian sunlight radiated on her in a warmth that she had been lacking for some time now. Not even the blazing hearth of the Head common room in the middle of winter had felt this soothing and toasty. As if sunlit air was healing her from the inside out, every breath taking it in as she tossed the ball and watched the fur-comet zoom after, wondering if maybe letting them stay here was for the best.

After all…the Granger residence was no more. 

Nothing but shades of green for miles around, the hills and farm plots, the stretches of fence line and small shapes in the distance that were their closest neighbors. So quiet, even compared to their happy suburb in Hampstead. Safe. Far safer than any place in Great Britain would’ve been. She’d made the right choice. Got them out, kept them alive. If after everything was said and done and they weighed the pros and cons and thanked her all the same but asked her to leave…well, then that would be it, wouldn’t it? 

Her life wouldn’t be over. It would be incomplete, a little shattered and riddled with holes, but over time…eventually they’d be filled. She still had that book to write. More people to piss off by merely existing. Her circle of closest friends and confidants. Crookshanks. It wasn’t so bleak.

Watching Hamlet fly like he was his own Nimbus 2000, she let her curiosity and wanderlust take her aimlessly through the front yard, the solivagant stroll easing the tension in her shoulders as she breathed in the dry Australian air. It smelled so differently, almost rawer, hardly signs of the industrial stamp of humanity disrupting the lay of the land. The way the world used to be before her species evolved to manipulate the forces around them to their will.

The grass was crisp and edgy under her feet, giving way to patches of dirt here and there as another toss of the ball had Hamlet bolting for the barn. Its bright red paint aside, the building was a curiosity pulling her in. she wanted to see, to know, to learn everything about the life her parents had built.  
……………………….

Dolores O'Riordan’s soft Irish voice cradled by a set of earphones soothed Draco’s nerves as he set to work in the barn, as most music did. He’d often find himself lost in a CD or tape with the plugs still in his ears long after he’d passed out, the music having taken him away from whatever trigger he was running from. It wasn’t always soft alternative rock like this; sometimes he needed the scream of Chester Beddington, the hypnotic almost nasal pitch of Chris Cornell, or the growling and seductive pull of Rob Zombie.

Cody and Liam had introduced him to a musical world in which he’d been missing.

He sang along, unaware of little figure lurking in the doorway.

“Oh, I thought the world of you  
I thought nothing could go wrong  
But I was wrong, I was wrong  
If you, if you could get by  
Trying not to lie  
Things wouldn't be so confused  
And I wouldn't feel so used  
But you always really knew  
I just want to be with you”

Just mucking the corral, shooing bleating sheep aside and encouraging them out the side door as he went about his routine he knew by heart, like the lyrics to the song.

“And I'm in so deep  
You know I'm such a fool for you  
You've got me wrapped around your finger  
Do have to let it linger?  
Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger?”

She lingered.

Watching and listening. Eyes and ears almost in denial of what they were observing. Her childhood bully, spoilt brat and poshy snob who teased her to tears was indeed shoveling shit and singing along to muggle music. She watched as his lean body stretched, sometimes his shirt riding up to reveal a peek of flesh, denim jeans taunt over a firm buttocks as he squatted and moved about. He wore no gloves, hands gripping the wooden shaft of the pitchfork just as he would’ve with a broom, his movements poetry in motion as he flung hay and sang. The fanny pack on his hip secured the portable CD player as he moved.

“You know I'm such a fool for you  
You've got me wrapped around your finger  
Do have to let it linger?  
Do you have to, do you have to, do have to let it linger?”

She admired the way he’d let his voice lilt over the extended syllables and added the Irish inflection to some of the words. It was by no means as thick and rushed as Seamus’s accent, sometimes running an entire sentence into a one-word cacophony that took a second’s delay to decode before giving a response to. He had a talent. She’d seen it the evening prior in the pub but that was before knowing who was behind the voice, before the face became familiar and the personality attached begged her sanity to double check itself.

Honestly, he was a little breathtaking.

Well, he always had been. But not even puberty could forgive all the insults and rivalry set on their shoulders. Like the Rosa x Alba rose, pretty but would draw blood if you got too close. She knew better than to ever get too close. Unfortunately, Harry and Ron never could walk away. The insufferable pride of all three of those boys had driven her looney, wondering if all males were like that. Viktor had been a gentleman through and through, surprisingly for a professional Quidditch player. He’d been that brief glimpse into a possibility that never got the chance to be explored, what with a war going on and all.

And now?

Now finally her own person, no longer bound by parental or scholarly guardians, no longer chasing down and separating silly boys wanting to fight, no obligations to anyone except for herself, she pondered just how it came to be that she was behaving like a shy wallflower, silently observing someone she’d come to know through journal entries and recollections of his mother. What she knew, what she’d recently learned, and what she saw now brewed together in an unstable potion, threatening to boil over or combust if she didn’t find a way to bridge the gaps. Like any Arithmancy formula, she needed all the figures in place to reach a solid conclusion. 

“I am a man Hermione, not a pity project.” He had said.

Yes, a man he was. But also an enigma.

And she did always love a challenge.  
………………………..


	15. Of Medicine and Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds herself at Draco’s mercy with an injured foot and the way his eyes never seem to stray far from her. She shows an example of magic for the Wilkin’s to grow comfortable with when informing them of the route she took in order to learn how to restore their memories. Draco does not take the news well, knowing the wizarding world will treat Lockhart like a victim rather than the criminal fraudster he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: 
> 
> Dreams by The Cranberries .....in the beginning
> 
> Tom Sawyer by Rush ......at the end
> 
> Trigger for Panic Attack

He needed to escape.

The couch felt too small. The living room felt too small. The house felt too small.

There were chores to do anyways, but this conversation was far too personal and sensitive for someone like him to be in on. He wasn’t part of the plan. And hearing her tell her very own parents that if they wanted nothing to do with her nearly broke his heart as she swallowed that Gryffindor pride and promised to let them be without her.

How did she have the courage within her to do that? Again? Even in the first place? And to say that to them knowing it could very well be a possibility?

And why was she talking with Aunt Andromeda?

And who was this “most gracious host”?

It was all too much. He needed air.

Leaving the room without a second to spare, he marched to his room, grabbed his work boots and shoved his feet into them harshly, grabbed the portable CD player and fanny pack, looped it around his waist and slipped out through the back door, immediately stuffing the earbuds into his canals and pressing the ON button as he headed for the barn.  
Now he was in a working groove, letting The Cranberries seep into his head rather than the spiraling thoughts he had, letting the sheep out to graze and started cleaning the pen. Staying busy with a physically demanding task was a tantamount way to clear his mind. Everything was lost to him except for the matter at hand, dedicating everything he had to give to its completion. It was a trait he didn’t know he possessed, a drive to leave no task undone-awfully Hufflepuff of him-but he’d always been a perfectionist to his core. One had to be, living with the standards set by his father. The bar was always just so out of reach.

He bet Hermione’s parents never adjusted the bar, watching her vault over it and continuing summersaulting over every one that followed, their standards constantly bombarded by an exceptional child. All the framed awards, medals for competitions, spelling bees, science fair projects, most books read-har har big surprise there-and just plain notes of excellence by her muggle teachers had him rethinking how he would’ve approached her had he even an inkling of her academic standing if he’d had the opportunity.

She would’ve been his first pick for every project in any subject. Literally would push someone out of the way and leap over a desk to get to her before anyone else. Their creative brainpower would’ve been terrifying. It’d be a battle of brains between them in the ranks for House Cup. They would’ve set the curve with soaring O’s across the board. He’d even tutor her to fly knowing that was her Achilles’ heel. And she would’ve seen him through Muggle Studies, Care For Magical Creatures, and History. 

Yeah right. Only in a perfect world where there had never been a Lord Voldemort and he hadn’t been raised with outdated racial beliefs.

Shaking the thoughts away he just tried to let the lyrics of the song be his focus as he worked. Once Linger finished the shuffle button selected Dreams.

“Oh, my life  
Is changing every day  
In every possible way  
And oh, my dreams  
It's never quite as it seems  
Never quite as it seems  
I know I've felt like this before  
But now I'm feeling it even more  
Because it came from you”

He’d been living day to day, constantly in the moment, never knowing what to except when he first arrived, everything being so new. With his magic sealed away he was unable to fend for himself in the one way he knew how. Living with the Wilkins presented a whole new challenge as he was perpetually on edge with the fear he’d fuck up and find himself homeless once more.

And then it all somehow fell into a comfortable routine, a rhythm like a well-worn path carved into the woods. The anxiety ebbed away, the fears subsided, the warmth developed. It all felt safe. 

And now it was all threatened again.

“Then I open up and see  
The person falling here is me  
A different way to be  
I want more  
Impossible to ignore  
Impossible to ignore  
They'll come true  
Impossible not to do  
Impossible not to do”

He stopped singing, voice thickening with emotion as his walls started crumbling. No longer caught up in the song, just standing there, feeling his shoulders hitch as his breaths came in short and ragged, a pain pounding with every heartbeat. He reached down and pressed STOP but kept the earbuds in, just trying to get a grip when he heard shuffling. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Hamlet running in circles and then a girl’s cry.

His blood ran cold. There was only one person who that could be.

Bolting through the pen and leaping over the rail, he jumped out of the barn to find Granger clutching her bare foot, hopping up and down, hissing about something getting her.

Before she could register what was happening, she felt herself be engulfed in two strong arms, hoisted up by her thighs and hurriedly carried back into the barn. Her arms naturally wrapped around the neck for support and to prevent from hitting the ground, surprised to feel threads of soft hair between her fingers. Blinking back her shock, she was about to voice a protest when she felt the hands release her onto a hay bale.

“What got you? Why the bloody hell aren’t you wearing shoes? Did you forget that most of the world’s most venomous animals live here?” questions flew at her faster than she could answer as Draco palmed her calf and brought her leg up to check the bottom of her foot.

Something about “stupid, brash Gryffindors” was muttered as the strong calloused hands went about tracing the lines of her foot, inciting ticklish reflexes but his hold was firm as she squirmed. Among the dusty dry dirt was something wet and dark, sticky and clumped around a sharp bit of something protruding from the sole of her foot.

“Thank god.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “You weren’t bitten or stung. It’s just a rock, or maybe glass. Nasty little sharp one but still…” He yanked the buds out of his ears and stuffed them into the fanny pack, then eyed her sharply. “What the hell is wrong with you? Ever watch a bloody documentary about this place as a kid? SHOES Granger. Always.”  
Even with him bent on one knee, with her sitting on the hay bale, they were practically eye level, and yet she felt so small as he somehow seemed to grow larger with his frustration aimed at her. His voice rained down with disappointment, disbelief, anger and a hint of fear, like a father reprimanding their child. When he finally stopped to take a breath he noticed how shaken she appeared, fingers digging into the straw as she was attempting a breathing exercise.

“Hermione?” he asked, suddenly on both knees, taking hold of her face with both hands and forcing her head up at him. “Hey, look at me.” he ordered softly. “Breathe.” He inhaled slowly, setting the pace for her to follow, watching as she did. Then he exhaled just as slowly with her in tow. 

Her red nose and glossy eyes indicated the impending tears, one of which had fallen onto his thumb. He swiped it across her cheek, accidentally leaving a smudge of dirt. "Hey, I didn’t mean to yell. I guess I came off a bit too hard.”

How could he know? He hadn’t been there that final year. Triggers. So many triggers. The infirmary saw an influx of students suffering from self-harm coping mechanisms, overdoses on calming draughts and other drugs-muggle and magical alike-and those who had night terrors and slept walked their way into walls and down stairs. Healers from St. Mungo’s were on call, Mind Healers made available to discuss the trauma, Madam Pomfrey enlisted the aid of Slughorn and Sprout to help cultivate non-addictive formulas of calming draughts or find alternative sources to ease the student body. Yoga and meditation was introduced by a new muggleborn professor and group therapy sessions were scheduled weekly.

It helped. Vastly. But it was still a band-aid on a broken limb.

Time was the one healing agent they couldn’t cut corners on. Either you woke up and were able to face the day or you stayed in bed with the curtain drawn, curled up with wand in hand, tears streaming down your face as you fought the urge to self-avada or obliviate.

Draco’s frantic search for a wound and rapid fire questioning had accidentally brought her back to all of it. The battle. Reuniting with the Weasley’s in a tight embrace, someone questioning where all the blood had come from, suddenly every part of her hurting now that she had a moment to breathe. Something in her eyes must’ve given it away, some silent neon sign flashing for the Pandora box he opened. She saw him soften, sink into himself as he whispered softly to her that she was alright, that he was sorry.

Her breathing had returned to normal, eyes no longer lost in the past, and her foot throbbed like a son of a bitch. But all that paled in comparison to the sight of her childhood bully on his knees before her, concerned for her safety, treating her like she was someone who mattered.

“Are you with me now?” he asked, noting the lucidity in her eyes. She nodded. “Good. Now, let’s get you to the house so we can get a proper look at that foot.”

“Ok.” She replied numbly, allowing him to pull her up by her hands. Though, she couldn’t put weight down on it. One wobbly hop and he tsked, trying to keep a straight face.

“Nice try gimpy but you’re not hopping all the way there. I’ll take you.”

“What?” she balked, backing up as he inched closer. “Oh no you don’t.”

“Granger, it’s your own damn fault you got hurt, don’t make it worse by being too stubborn to accept help. I’ll carry you. Can’t be more than ten stone anyways.”

Him casually throwing out her weight like that somehow brought a defensive reaction she couldn’t place, but she’d be damned if she let him make a mockery of it. “I can hop fine if you just help. No need to get all dramatic with the chivalry.”

He barked out a laugh. “Chivalry eh? Well, no one’s ever accused me of that. Shall we tack it onto my list of crimes?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Granger, hush. And I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widened, taken back by the abrupt apology. Before she could say anything, he was hoisting her up and over his shoulder like she was quite literally a sack of potatoes. Her hands immediately shot down and braced against his lower back, her hair flung over her face and his arm came across the backs of her thighs to hold her in place.

“Yep. Light as a feather.” He quipped, steadily marching out of the barn with Hamlet dancing like mad around him, jumping to catch at her hair and being batted away as Draco egged him to go get his ball. “Now be still.”

“This is undignified!” she cried, turning one hand into a fist and pounding it into him.

“A little lower if you wouldn’t mind luv, I got a sore muscle you could work out by doing that.” He smirked with devilish delight, just imagining how red her face was under that mop of hair. The hard, open-faced thwack on his butt cheek had him clenched up for a second, stinging like the Dickens but chuckling all the same.

He was enjoying this. 

Their squabbling must’ve carried, for Monica was standing on the porch, hands on her hips, head cocked to the side in amused disbelief at the sight.

“Uhhh, I hate you Malfoy!” the little witch screamed, smacking his bum with every word/syllable she spat. “Stupid, tall, an-noy-ying, giant, praaaat!”

“Are you quite done now? You’re causing a scene.” He flatly replied, turning so that she could get a glimpse of the woman watching them. She was instantly cowed and remained silent as he stepped onto the porch.

“Princess Oblivious-to-the-dangerous-of-Australia decided to not wear shoes and cut her foot open, can you get the med kit?” he asked of her mother, who was not even bothering to hide her amused grin at him. He was grinning back unabashedly, a silent exchange between them.

He set her down in the rocking chair, grabbing her foot before she could even think of defying him and braced it on his bent knee. Monica arrived a moment later with a warm wet washcloth and the kit, opening it and retrieving the pair of tweezers for him. Hermione sat still with crossed arms over her chest, almost pouting at not even being able to heal it with her wand as Draco extracted the sharp piece of stone.

Mrs. Wilkins held it up for closer inspection. One could never be sure if it was natural shards of rock or spearheads from aborigines that had recently been unearthed. Draco made gentle vertical swipes of the cloth against her foot, holding her firmly by the ankle as it twitched from feeling tickled.

“I never knew you were ticklish.” He smirked.

“It wasn’t something I openly advertised.” She snapped. “To think if anyone found out, I’d be dodging feathers and all sorts of things in the classroom.”

“Or the Great Hall.” He added. 

She scowled. “All the more reason it was a closely guarded secret.”

“Well we’re not in school anymore.” He teased, pressing an alcoholic swab against the cut and was nearly kicked off the porch-but he was prepared for that reflex-as she keened and gripped the arms of the rocker so hard he worried she’d break the chair. So focused on keeping her pain reined in she hadn’t noticed the self-assured partially hidden smile the woman had as she held the kit and took out a bundle of gauze.

“You actually know first aid?” she panted as he started wrapping her foot.

“I may not have finished my final year at Hogwarts, but these two gave me one hell of an education here. I bet I know more about the latest “It Couple” than you do, and what current mobile phone is on the market.”

Oh, was that a challenge?

“Don’t think you can outwit me on muggle life.” She hissed as he pinched her big toe and wiggled it. “I have quite the advantage.”

“Are you two always like this?” Monica let out a dramatic sigh, effectively snapping them out of their banter bubble.

Draco saw Hermione’s squirm as she tried to defend her actions. “Just like riding a bike.” He piped up with the muggle idiom, enjoying those brown eyes widen at its proper use. “It’s like we never quit.” 

He took to his feet; his height becoming even more impressive from her position in the chair, looking absolutely chuffed at not only administering proper medical assistance, but to the notorious Insufferable Know-It-All. She silently conceded defeat, knowing this wouldn’t have happened had she worn shoes. Monica gladly took all the rubbish and remaining untouched items and scampered back inside with a barely audible giggle in her throat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Her mother wasn’t subtle at all. Never had been. Hence where she got it. She’d been raised to never be afraid to speak her mind and go for what she wanted, to enter a room and make her presence known.

But her mother hadn’t fought in a war-advocated and protested and rallied, but never fought. It was the sixties after all. She hadn’t been bullied for her biological heritage or choice of friends. She hadn’t been degraded to a screaming, bleeding and broken mess with her life literally in the hands of the enemy.

And now here she was, literally in his hands once again…only, he wasn’t the enemy anymore.

When he offered his hand her body was reacting faster than her brain-for once-and she was accepting it before she could contemplate trying to stand on her own. She gingerly placed the injured pad on the wooden paneling, pressing her toes in to take her weight, absolutely refusing to be carried in again. He’d only gotten away with it because it’d been so sudden and took her off guard, but now her pride was insisting on rebuilding itself, one painful step at a time as she limped her way back into the house.

He led her to the couch, bunching up pillows for her to rest her back on and placing one under her feet for elevation. At this time, she took her wand out of its holster for it started poking into her hip bone.

“If you’re capable of doing magic, why didn’t you just heal yourself up?” came the obvious question from her mother as she and her father came back in.

As if in revenge for all the times she’d done it in school, Draco piped up with the answer, reciting their textbook teaching on Medicine and Magic, beaming with pride as he did it.

“Self-healing is a risk unto the witch/wizard in question for it draws upon the magical core of the caster, and can in effect be more harmful to the healing process since it is from the same body. Even a little cut such as hers could start bleeding profusely or heal wrong. The same goes for being poisoned or why we don’t apparate while intoxicated. Healers are held in high regard in the wizarding community, much like your own doctors and nurses.”

Chagrinned to her core, Hermione felt the embarrassing heat of her flushed ears pinken, wondering if this was indeed how everyone else felt whenever she opened her mouth in class.

“So why didn’t you do it?” Wendell asked, popping his knuckles as he did when not knowing what to do with his hands.

Draco didn’t even look embarrassed, calmly answering that his magic had been sealed away, his wand confiscated, and that using another’s wand didn’t always guarantee results.

Insatiably curious now, the Wilkins took their seats and wanted to know all about the bond between witch and wand, the properties of spellcasting, and the practical use of such things. She and Draco shared a meaningful glance, knowing that the conversation they were about to have was against the Stature of Secrecy, but entirely necessary if they were going to allow her to use magic on them at some point.

She motioned for him to sit on the couch, pulling her feet up for him. He took the cushion but once settled, took hold of her ankles and placed them in his lap, laid a hand over them possessively and dared her with an arched eyebrow to resist. She bit her lip and willed herself into a calm happy place as she picked up her wand.

“Do you want a demonstration?”

Of course they did.

“Lumos.” She said, and saw their eyes light up just as her wand did, just like her eyes did the first time she held this wand and cast at Ollivander’s command. What was more of a revelation to her was Draco’s reaction of seeing magic used for the first time in a year. It was like a child watching their Christmas tree be lit up for the first time, taking in the wonder and happiness it brought. His hand on her ankle tightened for a moment as his breath all but stopped. The simplest spell in their itinerary and he responded like this?  
Then he’d lose his mind over the Patronus charm.

“It’s beautiful.” Monica said breathlessly.

“Oh please,” Hermione dismissed, “It’s like turning on a torch. This is the most basic spell. Nox.” She incanted, extinguishing the light.

Wendell’s hands clutched the arm rests of his recliner. “And you carry that with you everywhere?” Hermione nodded. “And it can be used as a weapon?” She nodded again, but slower. “And…so…It does everything?”

“Just about.” She answered, trying to read his eyes for a sign to see where his line of questioning was headed. Her father had always been a little guarded, always erring on caution and had passed that onto her. “It channels the magic that resides within me into a focal point. Spells are usually incanted in Latin and require specific wand inflictions. You can’t just point and command. That’s how accidents happen.”

“Is that what Finnigan did every time then?” Draco chortled, remembering the Irish lout more for his singed robes and permanent allure of smoke from constantly setting shit on fire, even a Merlin-forsaken feather when trying to levitate it.

Hermione ignored the jab at her fellow housemate. His proficiency in blowing things to smithereens certainly was a boon in the battle of Hogwarts.

“And they trust children at age eleven with these things?” the man voiced concern. “Just how many accidents happen there?”

Oh dad, you have no idea….

“They have some of the best resources in the magical community, with highly trained professionals educating us on the proper dos and don’ts as well as having quite a feared Medi-Witch on board running the infirmary. Even when Professor Lockhart mistakenly removed both the radius and ulna from Harry’s forearm, we have a potion called Skele-gro that rapidly regrows bones back in less than half the time for it to happen naturally.”

“That ponce.” Draco snorted, remembering the buffoon from their second year.

Hermione felt that now was as good a time as ever to mention it. She steeled her nerve and took that extra deep breath, a good indicator of the enormity weighing on her that she was about to divulge. “Speaking of that ponce….he’s the reason I’m actually here.”

She felt Draco stiffen.

“He was a fraud, the only thing he was good at were Memory Charms and manipulating people. And he ended up wiping his own memory with the Obliviate spell when he had Harry and Ron cornered…..I went to the hospital where he’s been staying for the past seven years and over this summer…I worked a series of spells on him. And I…I fixed him…”

“You did what?” Draco gasped, grey eyes as wide as she’d ever seen them, hand clutching her ankle tightly again. “You gave that fool back his memories! He’s a criminal!”

“And he was my guinea pig!” she shouted back at him, yanking her feet free from his lap. “Don’t you dare judge me Draco Malfoy,” she pointed a finger at him, wrapping her other arm around her legs. “I’ve always done what was necessary, even if those decisions fell into the grey area of legal. It’s how I survived the bloody war! And I had support. I had financial backing and the blessing of the damn staff at St. Mungo’s. They want me to write a book about it now.”

“What are they going to do with him? Just set him back free?” he scoffed. “Fucking lunatic erases countless wizards’ memories and you save him and get hailed a goddamn hero….I get dumped here after being forced into all the shit I had to do and not a damn soul cares.” He pushed up from the couch and stormed out of the living room.

She bit back the urge to shout at him, to yell that his mother had been involved from the very beginning, it was her bloody idea in the first place, but he just had a way of jumping to conclusions and letting his anger fuel whatever followed. Honestly, it was just like being back at school. Never mind that he was absolutely right and how that stung like a sonofabitch-not just that he was right, but how once again the world was not even giving him a chance to redeem himself. He’d proven his coercion into all the deeds he’d done and yet they threw him to the sharks. Lockhart…he could very well go free.

It was another example of the injustice she had been rudely awakened to.

But law Wizarding Law was not her forte, and she was no Ministry employee. She was lucky she’d gotten any awareness with her S.P.E.W. program and the campaign she was running with the hopes to get it put into law. She’d use every bit of her war-earned fame into getting that little project made into a reality. She’d willingly accept any amount of Malfoy contributed galleons to get it done. That she had no qualms on.

Regarding Lockhart, her conscious was conflicted to say the least. Wasn’t his remorse enough punishment for him? But what about actual justice? For those he personally wronged? She didn’t even know how Harry and Ron felt about the man and what might happen to him since the wedding took precedence over everything else so quickly. She kept having to tell herself over and over that she simply couldn’t get involved with every little fight. She had to pick her battles and step away from others. And this fight, it simply was not hers to engage with.

“That boy…” Wendell tsked, shaking his head.

Hermione cast her eyes at her father. “What?”

The retired dentist scrubbed at his chin for a moment. “He has so much anger…so much pain. Screamed bloody murder nearly every night during the first weeks here. We had to detox him, nurse him back to a healthy weight, treat his sunburn, and then watch as he wrestled with every word he said to us. So guarded and afraid, skittish like a deer. It took months, and even when he did speak of such things, they were still kept vague and minimal.”

He sighed, giving her such a sorrowful face that her heart ached. 

“I’ve never seen a more tortured soul. It’s taken this long but he’s come around, made himself a place here, name , friends, a routine…you show up and it’s thrown everything out of balance again. And now I have to wonder if we’re gonna have to come to a decision…because he has nowhere else to go…but obviously, you two are corrosive together.”

She blinked several times.

“Dell, we haven’t come to a conclusion yet…” Monica warned, on the edge of her seat.

Hermione felt like her heart was going to literally fall into the acidic pit of her stomach.

The man sighed. “Look, I get it, it’s the first day….emotions are everywhere. I’m trying to process this best I can: finding out I have a long lost daughter, she’s a witch, magic is a thing that exists, and the past two years have been some sort of witness protection….it’s enough to drive a man insane. And then there’s the two of you, clashing like it’s the War of the Roses and it’s all quite overwhelming.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong, Hermione mused as she listened to him list all the things he’d been bombarded with this morning alone. Man was a trooper for sure. Most Muggles would’ve been calling for the coppers or reaching for a gun by now.

“I think the two of you need to go talk first.” He concluded.

She blinked owlishly for a few seconds. That was not in the agenda of how she plotted things going along. Hell, nothing had since she stepped foot into this blasted country. Her normal rigid scheduling and meticulous planning never failed her before, and yet, it seemed all counterproductive to how the series of events were rolling out before her. Maybe I just need to throw away the mental planner and just wing it…

“Talk to him? You mean…like, the ‘big talk’ where we go over all the stupid things we did as kids and apologize to each other and probably end up screaming about something regarding Harry and maybe having another altercation kind of talk?”

He nodded with a firm “Mmm hmm.” And then took a languid sip from his glass. “The way I see it-and take no offense-but he’s more like family to us than you are, given that we only have the vaguest recollection of you. And we don’t want him ostracizing himself again in some self-exile from us merely because the two of you cannot co-exist in the same room. So hash it out with him and see if you can make it work or else I don’t see us being swayed into playing with memories.”

She’d always admired the way that William Granger had spoken and presented himself, a man of reason and fairness served with bitter truth. Sugarcoating is a dentist’s greatest adversary; he’d joke when she was younger and got a kick out of his puns and the double meanings. He’d rarely ever been that abrupt with her though, and it stung like a bitch to finally have it addressed to her, after all she’d been through, had put herself through on his and her mother’s behalf. But she couldn’t be angry at him for still being who he was even if he answered to a different name. He was still her father even if he didn’t remember it and was willing to entertain the possibility that he might be.

“Hermione, dear, it would make things around here far less tense if the two of you did lay down your shields and swords and spoke plainly with another. You’re still welcome to stay of course, please don’t assume this is some way to kick you out and save face-goodness no-I want for us to continue warming up all this. And in the meantime, the two of you…well….you said you were going to look for him.”

She loosely untucked her feet from her rear end in a nervous fidget.

“And here he is. Perhaps sooner than you expected but surely you cannot argue that this was perhaps Fate’s design?”

Oh if Professor Trelawney could hear her speak.

A heavy shuddering breath exhaled from her. She wasn’t ready for this. Not to face Draco Malfoy. No, she fully expected to be convincing Wendell and Monica Wilkins to allow her to ‘show them something’ and open their minds, dig deep into the cavern that was the human brain and pull those memories back to the surface. She plotted and planned so hard for this, for things to fall into a natural order.

But honestly, when had that truly ever happened for her?

Every year attending Hogwarts had nearly been thwarted by unforeseen troubles and outside forces plucking her off her well plotted path to furthering her education. Surely it shouldn’t be so surprising that even now, outside of the school and the wizarding world and the war, that she was still facing that great adversary. After having so little control of her life, and the actions she took because of the lack thereof, she had just hoped for one thing to go as planned.

“Alright…” she found herself meekly agreeing. Honestly, how could she refuse them? They’d been more than fair with her since she collapsed at their doorstep. Perhaps this was the best route, smooth things over with Malfoy in order to show that she could work the miracle she was promising. Shame he didn’t have a wand on him, he could probably help, but he’d obviously won them both over and they cared greatly for him. So funny, terribly ironic that they were the ones to find him and take him in. Of all the places in the world and the billions of people residing, he’d found her parents just like she’d come to his home seeking a resolution of her own.

……….  
Fate’s design indeed….  
……….

Draco stormed off to the bedroom that had been his personal domain for the past year, the Wilkins kindly offering their “office with a bed” as his own place to sleep and stay, seeing as he was in poor health and had no funds or any identification to his name. He was as good as a homeless bum on the street-and technically had been for those few days before they found him-and they couldn’t let a fellow countryman remain in dire straits. It was apparent shortly after their agreed upon deal that the little twin size would not do for his lengthy frame, so the very first thing they purchased for him-besides a pair of shoes-was a larger bed. After hauling the frame in piece by piece and helping Wendell set it up they realized some rearranging was in order. 

It had been an arduous process with him proclaiming they were already doing well above what would be considered generous, only to be shut down before he begin another round of emotional groveling. He spent those few nights on the couch as the room was a work in progress, Monica deciding that it also needed painting to accommodate its new occupant, and he spent hours in the paint section of the super-sized hardware store that was Bunnings. 

So. Many. Colors.

And getting to choose? He’d never had that kind of say in his own childhood bedroom, being an ancestral monument of old traditions and dignity. Honestly he was lucky he’d even been allowed to hang his Quidditch team posters and Slytherin banners from when they finally took the lead with the House Cup. He immediately started looking at all the greens, rich and dark and purely Slytherin before stepping back and realizing he was falling right back into old habits. Old ways. Old prejudices.

He wasn’t Draco Malfoy anymore.

And so then he was perturbed. He had the freedom of choice. Only, the problem now was that there was such an abundance of choice it was overwhelming. It was easy to quickly mark off the feminine aimed selection of pastels and neon’s, pinks and yellows, definitely the reds, and the ungodly obscene amount of white-but-not-white hues that made him nearly go cross-eyed trying to tell apart the difference between eggshell and vanilla. 

Eventually, with a selection of color swatches and pamphlets of how a room would look in said color, he narrowed it down and then felt like a ridiculous fool when he held up the color card and it read Periwinkle. 

But it was a soft, soothing tone that brought him peace. It was just enough to look like a cloudless sky…and shamefully, the silken folds of a particular ball gown at one special event….

It was just one of many ways that Granger had gotten under his skin without him even realizing it. And one of the many things that kept her fresh in his head-even when he didn’t want her in there. But he’d made his choice and the room was painted, the furniture moved back in place, and the bed erected with a pouty-eyed Hamlet imploring him to share and before he knew it, the dog was his constant-and only-companion.

He marched over to his CD/cassette/radio boom box-truly a blessing to anyone musically inclined with multiple medias on hand-and turned it on, finding the “classic rock” station playing Tom Sawyer by Rush. Was it cliché to say he felt a connection to the titular character in some fashion? With lyrics like ‘No his mind is not for rent, to any God or government, Always hopeful yet discontent, He knows changes aren’t permanent, But change is’ he couldn’t separate himself from the imagery it created in his mind.

He’d had enough of his mind being open during his trial-to God and government-and was stripped bare as every action on his part was dissected and analyzed, with enough Veritaserum flowing through his veins to willingly confess to pilfering sweets from the kitchens at age six if they so much as raised a curious brow, hoping that they’d find him the victim of circumstance that he was and be in possession of a heart to consider mercy. 

If exile was their idea of mercy, one could only shudder to think what would’ve been in store if they had wanted to make an example of him.

So lost in the guitar rift, he didn’t hear the gentle knock on his door, as he mimed the movements having left his guitar back in the truck after his hasty departure from the Drunk Dingo. He often got lost in the glory of powerful instrumental movements, something he hadn’t verbalized but was evident in the way he reacted when hearing a song for the first time, or seeing a performance on the telly screen. Rocking out to the Weird Sisters during Yule had been his one true concert experience in his wizarding years. Now in his muggle existence, being doted and toted around by the Wilkins as their long estranged nephew, he’d attended an Elvis festival among many other outings that had him clamoring to acquaint himself with the culture. 

There was so much more than the stuffy piano recitals of his childhood, a skill imposed upon him that would inevitably amount to nothing but a flex of prestige at gala events where wining and dining was the currency and a signed cheque was the goal. There was no passion in it. Never had been. Until he’d been brought into a muggle music store as Wendell went into a discussion with the proprietor and his curiosity pulled him towards the little baby grand sitting in the corner with the slightest amount of accumulating dust across its top and he sat, cracked his knuckles and lightly touched the first ivory tooth in the smiling grin of the instrument before spontaneity took over and he was one with the melody.

He hadn’t realized it at first, when he first held Wendell’s guitar and tested the strings, how much the gift of music would be to him, to soothe him, ground him back in his new reality, help him escape his nightmares and demons, to comfort him when nothing else could. Without it, surely he would’ve succumbed to darkness entirely, losing himself in the bottom of a bottle or his life completely. All he knew is that he wouldn’t be who he was now if it hadn’t been for the kindness of two dentists and the friendship of two Aussie boys and their drive to be something better than Outback White Trash and end up in a biker gang.

The door slowly creaked open, a shy brunette lingering in the doorway observing the pale blond as he swiveled his head to the song just a year younger than himself, hands held in position of an invisible guitar as the right cradled the neck and the left plucked the strings, one foot tapping a beat on the floor as he imagined he was Alex Lifeson, driving the notes from his musical axe like a disciple of Terpsichore. Such was the sight that it left her stunned in breathless awe, intruding upon his privacy in the way one was drawn into the woods by the nymphs within; she couldn’t peel her eyes away nor find it in herself to announce her presence.

Besides, he wasn’t the only Rush fan. It’d been far too long since she’d heard this song too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has cover art, posted on chp. 1


	16. What MUDBLOOD Really Stands For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Hermione and Draco get to talking, there’s suddenly company at the door and Draco panics, insisting she hide. Just who does she need to hide from?

When the classic hit came to its inevitable end, Draco Hung his head and raked his fingers through his hair, not quite that moon-white shade it once was, but tinged with a touch of sunshine, and inhaled slowly. 

The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he felt the faintest breeze, and that could only mean his door was open. 

That, and the particular scent he’d noted when he plucked a particular brunette up over his shoulder crept into his olfactory senses and resided, telling him he had a visitor.  
“Have you developed the habit of sneaking up on people, Granger?” he lazily intoned, masking his anxiety at having been spied upon while his back was still to her. “Surely these fine people taught you how to knock first?”

“Yes.” She said, answering both his questions at once.

He reached over and turned the radio volume knob down. “You don’t have to do that.” She said, halting him. “I grew up on this stuff. I miss it.” She confessed.

Turning to look over his shoulder, he was surprised she was still just in the doorway, like a vampire awaiting permission. She was slightly leaned over on her good foot, trying to look nonchalant. “If you want in, you only need but ask.”

It took her a moment, woolgathering as she was in her hesitation, apprehension apparent on her face as she nervously licked her lips and darted her eyes around, surveilling his bedroom for a possible exit strategy should she feel threatened. The mere fact he could tell she was doing it subconsciously hurt more than if it was deliberate-at least he could tease her for it-as it was just another sign of the mental scars left behind from the worst year of their lives. 

The current periwinkled walled abode was a far cry from the elaborate eggplant hued bedchamber suite from his ancestral home, but it was purely muggle and gave nothing away in regards to its current occupant. Where there had been glass dragon figures and quidditch posters, an antique writing desk and ornate carvings, oil paintings with gilded frames, an impressive wardrobe and full length mirror, with luxurious fur rugs and a personal hearth for Floo travel, he now had four square walls, a full-maybe queen?-sized bed with a simple stripe patterned comforter, a basic dresser, computer desk with a cheap desk chair on wheels-duct tape wrapped around one arm where the vinyl was peeling-and to her surprise, a Batman Returns poster gracing one wall. 

The bed took up what otherwise would’ve been available floor space, and there was no other place to sit than on the imposing padded piece of furniture as the desk was nestled in the corner by the window, with a little potted plant, Luxo swing arm lamp, a stack of composition notebooks and a cup of pens gracing its surface. Funny how she almost expected a laptop to be there, but perhaps it was stored away.

There was a small nightstand with three books piled on top-and books seemed to seep out of the corners of every available-on top of the little television residing on his dresser, lining the shelves of the computer desk, and stacked floor up in a pile of their own behind the door. Perhaps it had been a means to prevent the knob denting the wall if thrown open too harshly. She didn’t see the guitar anywhere. Then again, he might have it stored away in the closet.

“Done taking a visual tour?” he snorted, having watched her eyes dart, the cogwheels spin as she catalogued it all. “Small potatoes from what I grew up with, not that you’d know, but it suffices.”

She felt her jaw pop as she almost blurted out that she’d not only seen his room but strolled through his impressive extensive walk-in wardrobe and even went as far as to nestle nearly naked in his bed but knew that would lead to the mother of all misconceptions and blow-ups and derail her from her goal of trying to make peace with the tosser. So it was shelved for the time being, as most of her urges had been as of late.

Just the barest hint of that rich snobbery snuck out, causing her to straighten her shoulders as she took the open invitation and stepped into the room. “It’s smaller than what I grew up with, but I suppose it does suffice.”

He tossed his eyes up. “Oooh, bragging are we? Didn’t know you had the claws for that.” He smugly teased as he shifted around to fully present himself to his guest. 

“I’m well aware of the opulence of Malfoy Manor.” She plainly stated, watching him stiffen. “It’s been featured in the newspapers and magazines often enough.” At that, he slowly deflated as if he’d been prepared for a crass remark about what she endured there. No, she wasn’t going to bring that up and ruin any chance at becoming amicable. That was the very last thing that needed to be dredged up in this fragile acquaintanceship they were beginning to forge.

But honestly, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

When she opened her mouth to say something-anything-he held up his hands and begged her to stop. She blinked a few times at his abruptness, heart in her throat in anticipation of what he might have to say. 

Instead, there was more silence.

Awkward, heavy, deafening silence.

He scratched the back of his head. “Sorry. I mean. I didn’t mean to make it sound like an order…it’s just…” he glanced about his room as if something might jump out and save him. “Bugger…I thought you’d still be talking with them….” He risked meeting her eyes and his hand dropped.

“They told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t clear the air with you I might as well not be here…” she replied softly. Then she added “As it stands…you’re more their kid…not me…” so softly he almost hadn’t heard her.

His chest clenched tightly as the little break in her voice as she held back the tears that threatened to come with that bitter truth.

Oh God please do not break down and cry, please do not break down and cry…

“They don’t want you to leave, thinking you’re unwelcome. But if we can’t get along they’re not going to trust me to perform memory alternating magic on them. So…let’s just get this over with shall we?”

“Wait.” He said firmly. “What?”

She huffed as if she’d just finished explaining an Arithmancy equation to Ron who still hadn’t understood. “I don’t want to fight…but there are things we need to get off our chest and you know it. And you know it’s going to bring out our tempers.”

“I have no plans to fight with you. If anything…well…since I found those boxes…I’ve been thinking of what I would say to you…if you’d let me…but…” the words trailed off into that territory of things unsaid but understood as he cast his head away from her, gaze landing on his stack of notebooks. “I doubt I would do it justice.”

“I’m not going to force you to say anything you’re not ready t-”

“Granger, for the love of God, it’s not that I’m not ready, it’s that I simply don’t deserve it.” He whipped his head back to her. “Your time. Your patience. Your ever so annoying kindness and willingness to forgive. I simply do not harbor it. How can my words mean anything to you now after six years of cruelty?”

God how her eyes itched to leak. She felt like one more emotional declaration-even in its smallest measurement-would break the damn and leave her a sodding mess. All through their tumultuous history she had only truly broken down once. And they both knew what that time was. 

“Your words have always meant something.” She replied, freezing his blood instantly. She held up her hand to be allowed to continue. “At first, they were inconsequential, just the puffed up chest of a little boy trying to sound important at the start of a new school. Then, they taught me there was an unseen hierarchy in the way wizards are perceived, an underlying prejudice I was blissfully ignorant of because I had been accepted by my peers. Then, they were a warning…”

His throat felt thick as she continued.

“Despite the venom you spat in second year, you warned me at the World Cup. You made it abundantly clear I was not safe and I needed to get out of there.”

All he could do was teethe on his lip and nod, rubbing his arm in a nervous tick.

“And then your words were less. Less aimed in my direction, with less malice…until you were barely speaking to anyone at all. I may not have known what it was at the time, but I knew something truly terrible burdened you. I wanted to seek you out, reach you…see if somehow…there was something I could say, do…” She paused, inhaled, steeled her nerves and continued. “And then Harry. And that damn duel. And if ever there was a time I wanted to hex him sideways that was it, because he ruined any chance I had of trying to approach you.”

His jaw unhinged as his usual piercing grey irises widened from pure shock.

Oh how different it all could’ve been…if she’d come to him, if she had been the one to follow him to the bathroom instead, had found him weeping amidst the throes of a panic attack and had offered even the slightest bit of sympathy…If she merely reached out and touched his shoulder…had pulled him into her and held him, remaining silent as he released his bottled fears. If she had just said “let me help you” and wiped away his tears…he would’ve given it all up right then and there; his dark mark, his mission, and his failures that went astray.

Would she have been so forgiving then? Would she still have swept her fingers across his sullen face and swear to still help him?

~ Oh how I wish you could’ve saved me then…. ~

“So yes, Draco, your words have always meant something, and they still do. And I know you want atonement, absolution for your sins against me.” she dared to scoot forward even though there was still so much space between them, “I need to hear it as much as you need to say it. We’ll never get over our past otherwise. We’ll never see if there’s half a chance at friendship for us unless we know all hatchets have been buried.”

Draco felt like a hare staring down the eyes of an approaching wolf, on the verge of leaping out of danger’s way, fleeing in the moment she scooted herself a tad closer, afraid what he’d do if she so much as touched him: would he recoil or spring forward? What would she expect him to do? What if he chose the incorrect response? Not that her being the wolf meant she was hunting, no, she was curious. A curious wolf and a lone hare, each staring the other down, sizing the other up, gaging the intention of the other. Was this a hunt? Was this merely a crossing of paths? 

Friendship.

She was still offering it. Willing. Extending the olive branch. Placing the ball in his court. He just needed to NOT fuck it up.

Not that he needed Wendell’s warning on that. He respected the man, but he FEARED the witch in front of him. On the receiving end of her fist and wand on more than one occasion, he knew what he was up against. Out of the corner of his eye, the notebook called to him from its place on the desk. Where he often wrote his song lyrics, his stray thoughts, and the apology that seemed to never end and have no true beginning. It taunted him, mocking him for his tongue sat useless in his mouth and yet his hand had never failed at letting the words flow. But written words would not do.

She needed it spoken, needed to hear it as much as he needed to say it.

He needed to say them, to feel them form on his tongue and pass his teeth and jump from his lips into the air to be caught on the soundwaves to her eardrums, welcomed in the canals and down her throat until they found their way into her chest where her heart could heal.

How was it he could write endless pages, years’ worth of apologies until his hand cramped and his eyes watered yet fall short from even speaking the most basic two worded sentence in all history-for it would at least be something-and his mind go a blank as the telly in a power outage?

And the longer she sat there, quiet, patient, imploring…

Fuck! Why can’t I even…It’s just two words! At least start with those! Say something you nitwit!

He opened his mouth, the barest of sounds just breaking through when Hamlet’s telltale frantic bark caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, three seconds before he heard the familiar purr of that engine and the jaunty three honks to signify their arrival. His eyes widened in alarm, head whipping in the direction of his door, already calculating the distance between it and the hallway where she’d be in their instant line of sight, and then there’d be no escape, no chance to explain before either one of them opened their mouths and say the absolute worst possible thing and lead to disaster.

But he couldn’t bar them from entering the house, let alone his room. It was where they always hung out. Already he could hear Monica opening the door, greeting them with that falsetto voice women somehow achieve when encountering an acquaintance. 

Fuck. Shit. Bugger all.

There was nowhere to run.

“Granger, the closet if you wouldn’t mind.” He said, taking her hand before she the chance to contemplate his abrupt statement and hauled her to her feet, shuffling towards the tiny space, her heels trying and failing to dig into the carpet and find purchase. She couldn’t apply that much pressure to the bandaged one and nearly toppled forward had his arm not come around her waist and pulled her flat against him. “I promise I’ll not be long.” He pressed into her hair before his hand was at her lower back, ushering her into the dark abode.

“Mmph!” 

She fell face first into a curtain of clothing, jangling against clothes hangers and tripping over shoes blindly. Swearing under her breath, she felt frantically for the wall and the support it could provide before she heard him quite breathlessly greet two people by name. Something heavy clanged against the mattress.

“….took off like a bat outta hell, like you’d seen a ghost…” one said.

“…obviously, they wanted an encore so we stayed, still got your cut of the tips though, here ya are.” The other stated, the distinct sound of hands transferring cash undeniable.

My god, he wasn’t kidding….

She gasped.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Draco echoed, quick and loudly. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Well hell mate, why don’tya grab us some cold ones and tell us why’ya shot outta there last night?”

“Can’t mates, got shit to do. You know.” He countered, shoving the wad of bills into his jean pocket. “You caught me on a little break but I was just heading back out.”

“Well we could stick around-”

“No.” he firmly stated, apparently in a tone they weren’t used to hearing from him, for he coughed and repeated himself, only gentler. “Sorry guys, but honestly…Uhmmm….well something did come up and I just…I just need some time to figure how I’m gonna handle it…That’s all.”

She could imagine him waving his hand, possibly raking through his hair, trying to convey the urgency for privacy to be alone with his thoughts.

Oh yes, there certainly is something that came up, that needs “handling” as you so delicately put it…

Her displeased chuff suddenly drew silence from the room, one of them speaking up again. “Ok I swear I heard something.” A pause. “Whoa, are you hiding someone in your closet?”

“What?” He barked. “Are you nutters?”

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit…..

Fumbling in the dark she grabbed at her wand and barely incanted the Notice-Me-Not charm just before the door flew open, Draco looking like he was ready to faint, with the two blokes she recognized as his bandmates the night previous, one dark-haired with nearly black eyes and a scar on his nose, the other; blond, blue-eyed and dusted with light freckles with lashes to match, reminding her instantly of Harry and Ron so much that it was all she could do to hold her breath and remain still.

Draco’s eyes seemed to pierce right in through her, through the illusion spell and through her skin; though he couldn’t possibly know the exact spot she was in-hence the point of the spell.

“Jesus mate, had us goin’ there for a min.” the light haired one laughed.

The dark one turned to him. “Ya know, if ya had shelia over we wouldn’ta bothered ya. Like I said, ya need ta get laid.”

“Thank you very much!” Draco hollered, grabbing the door and forcefully shutting it, masking the sound that begun escaping from her trying to hold it in. “If you two are done thoroughly embarrassing the hell out of me-”

The other two broke into laughter. “Embarrassing you? Ha! Unless you suddenly care for the opinion of canines I don’t see an audience laughing at your expense.”

Oh trust me fellas, there’s an audience all right…

“Out.” He growled. “Out. Go. Thank you for bringing me the case and my tip but if you don’t mind I’ve a great deal to do….”

She heard shuffling and shoving, their protests and snickers at his annoyance making it worth being unceremoniously shoved within the closet’s confines and getting tangled in a row of plaid button ups and denims. She had to admit, even this closet smelled good-not as preserved as his one back home but muskier, rawer somehow.

Intoxicatingly so, she realized as she had her nose pressed against the closest flannel and inhaled.

I’m a goddamn nutcase.

The door flung open, eliciting a terrified squeak, with her hands immediately grabbing the shirt and falling back against the wall, misstepping with her bad foot.

“Granger, I-” he stopped and cocked his head. “Were you…smelling my shirts?”

“What? No! Course not!” she vehemently denied, shaking her head, swishing curls wildly, catching one onto an empty clothes hanger. “I was trying to not laugh at your ridiculous friends’ comments about your lack of-”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” He interrupted, bringing a hand up to suspend that sentence. “Pay no attention to those fools and their nonsense.” He offered the hand then to her. “Unless you’ve suddenly become a moth and want to stay in there….”

Oh how do I…..

“Yes please.” She replied, taking his hand, rough and calloused and….manly…

Sweet Jesus girl get a grip.

She started making her way forward when her neck snapped back, hair caught on the clothes hanger. “Ah fuck!” she hissed, immediately letting him go to reach back and throwing herself off balance on her good foot, just as he turned around to catch her and instead fell forward, pitching himself right into her and the clothes, bracing his hands out to catch the wall as she slammed back into it with him just a beat behind, body crushing against body in a tumble that happened in the blink of an eye.

Hamlet jumped at the sudden crash, barking as if to call for the parents to come help the tangled duo as they stood in stunned silence in the tiny space. Hermione had shut her eyes upon impact, her back meeting the wall but her hands grasped around something tightly, opening them to find herself clutching onto the open lapels of his button up shirt, tilting her chin up ever so slightly to meet eyes practically glowing, a mouth parted with a pant whispering over her face, and a chest thrumming with an incalculable heartbeat she could practically hear.

He’d tried his best. Honestly. To catch her before she fell, to reach for the clothes hanger snagging onto some errant curls, to brace firmly against the wall and prevent himself from colliding into her…but momentum was force to be reckoned with, and he went rigid the moment he felt their impact, his chest smashing into hers…quite soft…plush…Thank God his hands were flush against the wall and in no risk to doing anything inappropriate. Her hands however…He looked down and found them curled tightly into his shirt, those manicured nails digging into the plaid pattern. The sight of which still unsettled him for some unknown reason. And then when her eyes met his…

The air whooshed out of his lungs.

~ Oh god, I hope my breath doesn’t stink. ~

She didn’t appear hurt-thank Merlin for that-but mercy the way she looked with her hair splayed out wildly, cascading over the tops of his hands and wrists, the roundness of her orbs imploring him for reassurance, her tiny hands resting on his chest, just starting to ease up as she took her bottom lip in between her teeth….oh sweet Salazar…this was torture…

“Hey are you two-”

“We’re fine!” they shouted in unison, meeting each other’s widened gaze before breaking into wide grins and suddenly laughing as if a great inside joke had just played out.  
“Oh I see….” Monica stated, having peered her head in. “I’ll leave you two to it then…” The door closed behind her, Hamlet in tow.

“It’s not like that!” Draco shouted as Hermione continued giggling, burying her face into his chest as her eyes watered with joyful tears. “Oh for the love of-” he gave up, hanging his head and chuckling at the absolute absurdity of it all. Tangled in his own damn closet with Hermione Granger clutching onto him, laughing like idiots.

Like friends.

Like….

Do not even go there Draco. Don’t delude yourself.

“Given that you’re…laughing at this…I’m not sure…I should apologize…” he rasped out between breaths, unable to stop long enough to say a single sentence.

“I still…expect apologies…from you…” she replied in kind, wiping her eye and sighing, sending a thrilling tingle down his spine. Oh what a glorious sound. “But I need out…” she declared, patting his chest, indicating he should move.

It was suddenly apparent that they were in such close proximity, practically sharing the same breath with how little space there was between them, with his neck craned low to avoid hitting the pole and clothes hangers, now that she was free of hers.

“Oh what’s the matter Granger?” he smirked at her obvious and sudden shyness. “Never fooled around in a closet before?”

With how quickly she stiffened and how high her eyebrows shot up, he took that for a no. A very indignant and resounding no. 

“Draco Malfoy I swear on my wand I will hex your lips off if you continue that kind of talk in my presence.”

His smiled broadened. Exactly the type of reaction he expected. “Oh are my lips that intimidating? Afraid of what they might do?” his voice lowered an octave. “Afraid you might like them?”

With how she avoided meeting his eye, he felt validated that he’d gotten under her skin, got her started thinking about them and just what kind of things they were capable of. He leaned in-not that it took much-and let a breath ghost over her ear. “I could keep my hands right where they are and still bring you to your knees…using only my mouth…”

He watched as her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You wouldn’t…” she weakly argued, eyes straight forward, unwilling to meet his. “You know I’d-”

“You’d what?” he hissed, the breath skittering across the shell of her ear, causing her to shut her eyelids. “Pull your wand out on me? A defenseless muggle?”

Immediately her eyes shot open and she whirled her face in his direction. Had he not planned for that reaction and pulled back they would’ve collided and then there’d be no stopping himself from claiming what he wanted. Instead he grinned ferally, all Cheshire Cat playfulness with the lost little girl in his forest. “You’re so easy to rile Granger…one thing I’m glad that hasn’t changed over this year.”

He then pushed himself away from the wall, from her.

It took all his willpower but he even managed to turn his back and pluck the guitar case off his bed and go set it up against the wall by the dresser. As long as his hands were busy, touching something else, anything else…He kept himself looking as preoccupied as possible as she fumbled her way out of the closet, pushing past clothes hangers and muttering to herself like a clumsy first year who’d taken a wrong turn and encountered Peeves for the first time…

Just how was she such a formidable witch and yet such a klutzy girl?

A sharp quick smack across his shoulder blade indicated she’d freed herself fully from the wardrobe. He turned around as she started in on him. “I know your mother didn’t raise you to shove guests into a closet like I’m some sort of dirty little secret!”

From the living room in his recliner, Wendell brought a hand up and swiped down his face. “That boy is an idiot.”

Monica barely kept her laughter in check as she hid her mouth behind a hand, knowing those two were on a collision course with enough sexual tension to fell an English Oak with one strike.

“Ow! Granger for the love of mercy would you stop hitting me?” he cried, dodging another flinging palm as it rebounded off his chest. “Count your blessings I’m a gentleman or else I’d be matching you for each one you’ve given me, starting with that welcoming punch last night!”

“And you better be lucky I’m not claustrophobic! Did you even consider I might’ve developed a debilitating case of it from the war?”

“So you’re smacking me for something that only could’ve happened?” he growled, grabbing at her arm. “Well you threw me over a couch this morning or have you forgotten that? And how ‘bout for every swat to my arse you couldn’t get enough of?”

“I barely touched you-”

“I counted ten strikes little witch.” He stated confidently. “Would you like them in return, verbatim?” He watched as she replayed the little scene in her mind’s eye, eventually landing at the conclusion that he was correct. She yanked her arm free of his hold just as he gave a minimal push, and she stumbled back enough steps to have the back of her legs meet the bed and fall upon the mattress.

For a second he looked terrified, that he’d hurt her, rooted to the spot but with his hands up in a shocked sign of surrender. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out.

“You jerk!” She ambled upwards and then angrily climbed to her feet, standing atop of the bed, hands resting firmly on her hips, glaring down at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making you look up at me!” she shouted pointing a gold tipped fingernail in his direction. It was harder to be condescending and intimidating if you had to crane your neck upwards at your adversary.

He sighed and tossed the hair from his eyes. In two strides, he was standing before her, chin tilted up as he met her angry stare. “I’ve always looked up to you.”

Ah buggering hell….I did not mean to say that…..

All the steam she’d puffed into her sails deflated in an instant, whooshing out with her surprised exhale, blinking rapidly as she tried to compute this new information into the database of what she’d already formulated about Draco Malfoy.

There was no taking it back now, and he’d shown his hand with responding in much the same way, mirroring her being taken off guard with a second’s worth of raised brows and flushed cheeks before he turned his head to cough into his fist and pull at his collar. “Yes, well…there you have it…” he added awkwardly.

“Oh…” she said softly, at a loss for anything else.

Nervously, he shoved his fingers through his hair. “Look…I meant…you know… Academically speaking, of course.” He tried correcting, explaining it a way that made it sound less intimate than how it came out, blundering spectacularly.

“Of course.” She responded flatly, the elation she felt blossoming in her chest evaporated into dashed hopes with the next breath. “Well if you’ll excuse me…” she motioned for him to back away and give her room to step down from her perch as her bandaged foot twinged in pain-because damnit, she should be resting with it propped up on something-and her knee buckled at the loss of balance on the springy surface.

“Granger, here.” He offered his hands, seeing her wobble and fight to remain upright.

“Oh now you’re a gentleman.” She scoffed, waving away his arm only to pitch herself entirely to one side and topple.

Draco had always known since he was fifteen that he was going to be a tall man, looking his professors in the eye only to tower over them by graduation-or what you’d consider graduating with a war ending and a school nearly dilapidated come a month shy of the actual date intended. So it required little action on his part to outstretch his arms and catch the petite brunette as she fell off his bedtop and into those limbs, holding her firmly and against him so that her feet had yet to touch the floor.

He supposed it was well-deserved, her outburst at him, after all he had hid her away like she was a shameful secret just as he was trying to vocalize the apology of a lifetime. But he was well aware of her knee-jerk response to blurt out the truth, and if either of his mates had come in to see a girl in his room-THE GIRL-and automatically assume they were something more than what they were, she’d shoot that Abraxan hope down with a heavily emphasized label of their rocky awareness of each other’s existence and then he’d never hear the end of it from those two clowns.

There was a quick knock at his door. “Do we need install a time-out session for when things-” The door creaked open, followed by the abrupt end of the sentence and the quick closing of said door and a muffled “Never mind!”

Draco groaned, throwing his head back. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“I tripped!” she admitted.

“She fell!” he tried clarifying.

“Honestly!” she added to only make matters worse.

“And ‘Denial’ is just a river in Egypt!” Wendell shot back with Monica snort-cackling, burying her face into a couch cushion, pounding a fist into the material in the combined protesting from the young adults.

“I could die now.” Hermione deadpanned, still suspended within the grasp of a blond tree. “How long do you intend to hold me like I’m a doll?”

“Oh. Oh!” he came too, snapping out his revere. “Sorry bout that.” He gently set her down and backed her up to the bed and helped her sit.

“That’s two apologies out of you yet. By God, I think you might actually get through this.” She teased, watching that crimson flush flash across his face before he took to his knees and covered her hands with his own. “Uh… Malfoy…?”

“A proper apology should be where the apologizer looks up into the eyes of the recipient, to show their humility and prove their words are contrite. To ask for forgiveness is to in effect, beg for one’s life.” He began, his eyes focused on the gold trimmed nails of her somewhat pale tinted hands. His brow furrowed as he placed his hand flat upon her skirt-clad knee and held hers beside it in a color comparison.

“What are you do-?”

“How are you paler than me?” he whispered, bringing his head up and taking in the composition of her skin for the first time in clearer detail. She had purple shadows under her eyes that he at first mistook for eyeshadow, her hair looked slightly darker than he last remembered, and those darn glossy nails all prettied up for something-or someone…

She looked at their hands and yes, there was a significant change in their usual color palette. Given his new lifestyle, she wasn’t surprised now that he’d tanned into a healthier looking hue-hence part of the reason she didn’t recognize him at first-as it dawned on her that she’d spent her entire final year of school within the confines of the castle, only stepping out for the occasional Herbology lesson. No Quidditch games, no lunches taken in the courtyard, no skipping pebbles along the surface of the Black Lake or picking flowers with Parvati and Padma to weave into their braids. Every spare minute was dedicated to time in the library or the Headmistress’ office speaking with portraits.

“What have you been doing all this past year?” he asked her, voice barely above a whisper.

“Research.” She answered.

“All year?” He peered into those delicious looking orbs filled with intoxicating whiskey. “When was the last time you got some sun? Before coming here?”

The fact that it took her several seconds to respond bothered him. How long had it been? Was she seriously and wholly dedicated to the research of this spell that she had forgone any social life?

“The end of August. Harry and Ginny’s wedding.” She finally answered.

He shot her a withering gaze. That had merely been a week ago. But, it might explain the manicure…

“So, The-Boy-Who-Lived is now a married man eh? Good for him.” He said, truly meaning it. “If anyone deserves some happiness….”

“You deserve it too you know.” She immediately countered, not letting him doubt for one second that he had gone the whole year unmissed. “Several times, all we did was talk about you…wonder where you were, how you were fairing…your friends, your mother…they all miss you…”

He shut his eyes and rested his forehead in her lap. “Please, I’m trying to apologize here…and you keep distracting me…I just…I just can’t hear that kind of thing right now. You understand, right?”

She nodded. “Mmm hmm.”

“Granger…I don’t even know where to begin….every time I start thinking about how to go about it…it all just comes out randomly…”

She took the risk, but she couldn’t resist with his head literally right there. Slowly, softly, her fingers threaded through the light blond locks and felt him stiffen. If he felt she was crossing a boundary of his he did nothing to deter her. Perhaps he accepted it as part of his penance, allowing her this curious indulgence for this one time only. She held her breath as he started to melt into her touch, his shoulders going slack and his arms curling around her waist as she widened her thighs to accommodate him better hugging access, surprised at herself for her own brazenness. 

He couldn’t believe she was touching him-willingly, almost curiously touching him-and he wouldn’t move unless she ordered him to do so. Her small fingers combing through his hair, just like his mother used to do when he was a child, that long lost sensation hitting him so squarely in the chest that he buried his face into the curve of her thigh to hopefully smother any sound escaping. He wasn’t sure if it was her opening up to him or his body pressing against hers that made her widen her thighs to allow him even closer but he accepted it. What had begun as a proper pureblood apology only befitting a wizard of elite society, in traditional fashion of kneeling before the one he wronged had suddenly become him seeking her touch in reassurance, basking in the contact he’d gone without that he nearly forgot what it felt like.

It was nothing elegant and composed. Instead it was messy with suppressed sniffles and intimate touches that shouldn’t be happening, with him somehow forgetting his place and once again being selfish, accepting what he’d yet even ask to have, fearing that if it was voiced it would be rejected. 

She felt his shoulders hitch, that one sharp intake of breath and then she knew.

Her eyes never seemed too far away from producing tears, the entire year being a constant reminder of horrors endured and lives lost. Every single birthday of the fallen. The first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts had only been blessed by the birth of Bill and Fleur Weasley’s daughter Victorie. The last day of school was somber. Leaving the Burrow that fateful night and not stepping foot back into it since. The struggle of research and testing out the spells on Lockhart. The realization that she’d actually succeeded. The inevitable fallout of restoring the man’s memories. The frantic slapdash rush to give her two best friends the perfect wedding. Watching with happy tears as their union gave hope to the post-war wizarding community. Her fears of failing utterly, trying to undo what she’d done two years prior. And then Malfoy.

Finding him-far sooner than she had planned. Learning he had lived with her parents all this time. Discovering that they in effect saved his life. Seeing him become something so ordinary that it was extraordinary. Wrestling with all the convoluted feelings that had somehow sprung into creation from his absence as she learned about him through the testimonies of his friends, the heartwarming memories of his mother, and his own elegantly written words.

And now with his head in her lap he wept as if she were a saint that could grant him absolution and absolve him of his past wrongdoings.

It was then that she realized she didn’t need words from him to know what he meant. He’d grown up with far too much pride to even pretend a few tears for her sake. If he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t be kneeling before her, arms wrapped around her as if she’d otherwise float away, soaking the cotton fabric of her skirt with his tears.

In return she let hers fall.

“I was a little bastard.” He said plainly. “So fucking sure of myself…so entrenched in a prejudiced mindset that I refused to believe you were capable of anything at first….and god, I hated it that you were so good at it. Everything. Potions. Charms. Transfiguring. Herbology. All except Flying but fuck all if I couldn’t even catch a break there without little Saint Potter waltzing in and taking Seeker.”

“I lashed out, being toxic to everyone-especially you since I’d been raised to never get physical with a girl-so I had to come at your self-esteem, tear you down with names and insults and attack everyone you held dear. Everything you excelled at, every feature of yours…I couldn’t escape you. Even at home, I was reminded of my failures of falling into your shadow….When I suggested to my father that perhaps if I partnered up with you on a project, I wouldn’t fall into second place he was as livid as if I’d insulted our ancestors.”

Her breath caught in her throat at this unknown confession, something he hadn’t even possessed the courage to write about in his journal.

“It was then that he taught me to use that dreaded word.” He lamented, shaking his head sideways so he was in effect, rubbing her thigh with his nose. “He told me it would make you see your place. And god…the first time…It just came out…I mean you insulted me in front of the entire team…I had to retaliate… Weaselbee was more affected by it than you and it angered me even more that you just looked at me…like it was me…like I was the unworthy one…”

The confession gave way to tears. She spent a few more moments gently thumbing through his hair until he pulled back to wipe at his face. It was by pure reflex, reaching for his face, holding his jaw delicately as warm streams of salty saline trickled down, his eyes like storm clouds releasing rain. He was tragically beautiful, from bully to broken down soul seeking redemption.

How’d they gone from laughing and semi-flirting to openly pouring their hearts and eyes out was a testament to how emotional her year had been. One word, one mention of a name was all it took at times to tear her down from her high and plummet her into depression for a whole week. And he’d had all these regrets broiling around in his head for the past week, trying to find a way to make it all cohesive. She imagined he had a well-rehearsed prose worthy apology that would make Jane Austen weep but it was coming out angry and raw like molten lava, flowing of its own accord and viscosity. 

“Draco…” she softly called to him, witnessing the light burn bright in his irises at the mere mention of his name.

“God…say it again.” He begged breathlessly.

Smiling so much she felt it crinkle in her eyes, she repeated his name. “Draco. I don’t blame you for following your father’s example. All children want to please their parents. I knew it then just as I knew it last year when you tried so hard not to identify us.”

His hands came up and covered her wrists, his thumbs ever-so-gently rubbing against the pulse points. 

“Don’t torture yourself trying to apologize for every single little thing.”

“Granger-”

“No, you use my name.” she interrupted. “If we’re going to put it all in the past and make amends then we’ll speak like friends do and use our given names.”

His lips crooked upwards into a delighted smile. “Hermione.” He said, testing it out slowly for her approval. “Sweet, caring, kind Hermione.”

The reaction was priceless, that pink hue filling the apples of her cheeks and nibble of her bottom lip. 

Beautiful Hermione…

“There’s at least one more thing.” He promised, sliding his hand down her wrist, pushing back the material of her sleeve on her left arm. “This. There is no excuse for it, and I regret not being able to stop it. I couldn’t give myself away for sympathizing with the enemy, I couldn’t let on that I cared in any way…and you proved you were hundred percent wholly Gryffindor that day. A lesser wizard would’ve broken down and given up everything just to make it stop….You would’ve willingly died to protect Potter and the secrets entrusted to you.”

He finally possessed the willpower to break eye contact, resting on the horrid scarring slur that should’ve never been uttered in her direction. The worst day of her life, just one of many devastating in his, but ranking in the uppermost. Her screams haunted him that night, for many to follow. He’d seen Charity Burbage tortured and then eaten by the giant snake, he’d seen Vincent Crabbe fall to his death in a plume of Fiendfyre, he’d seen countless students and Death Eaters engaged in battle, robes the only difference to mark the fallen. Of all the horrors, save for the day he was branded with the Dark Mark and standing off with Dumbledore in the Astronomy Tower, watching her writhe helplessly on the floor of his drawing room in his deranged aunt’s clutches was the worst thing he’d ever witness.

“I didn’t deserve your testimony. If anything, you should’ve told the judges to lock me away like the scum I was, whose cowardice provided the saving grace which you used in your favor. Coerced under duress only covers the barest of what I’ve done.”

While his gaze burned holes into the angry letters in her arm, she watched him, knowing he had taken himself right back to that day, hearing the screams, seeing the tears, standing helplessly. She remembered him wincing, fists clenched tight, teeth grinding together as he tried to occlude for a shred of sanity, swearing she saw his lips move, silently mouthing “I’m sorry” as he could provide no assistance in her plight.

“I can’t forgive you for this.” She said softly, jerking him back to the present. He looked as hurt as someone getting rejected by their first love. “Because you didn’t do this to me. And your aunt sure as hell felt no remorse, even if she was around to ask for it. So you can’t apologize on her behalf, and you can’t apologize for doing nothing about it either.”

His brow furrowed, lips tightening into a scowl. “No, you don’t get to take that from me. It’s in my nightmares, my memories, it’s in my blood….this wound is as much mine as it is yours because it showed me where I let my compliance lead to. Where my blind obedience and coerced actions brought me. It showed me the future of the world had He lived…” 

He brought his hand up to it, remembering the way she reacted that morning, turned and asked “May I?” with his fingers hovering over the marred skin. There was a moment of hesitation before she nodded, voice having failed her. “This wound was a lesson to me. I may not have paid for it with my blood, but it still resonates in my veins nonetheless.” Ever so slowly his fingers ghosted over the letters. “I was so afraid…I was afraid she was going to turn to me and pass me the blade…I prayed that she just got it over with quickly, for your sake as well as my own. I don’t know what I would’ve done had she told me to do it…”

She swallowed thickly. She’d never told a soul but she feared the exact same thing. It was the only thing she feared more than the witch herself and the threat of the werewolves wanting to claim her. That if Bellatrix handed Draco the cursed blade and told him to prove himself by slicing her up he’d actually do it. Not that she sensed he’d derive any pleasure from it but simply from the lack of being unable to refuse. 

“I see this scar…and sometimes instead I see my own name…” he confessed, eyes still locked onto the gnarled slash marks. “It might as well read Malfoy, since everyone knows where it happened at and by whom…”

The way he said that sent shivers up her spine. He spoke of it like he saw the marks often, far too much for his liking, his nightmares twisting the letters into his family name for him to carry, turning it into a stone around his neck he couldn’t dislodge.

“I can never apologize enough…no matter what I had planned to say and what I’ve already said…it doesn’t equate for me.” his index finger traced the letter M, sadness in his eyes. “M…for Magnificent.”

He continued the journey with the next letter. “U for Unselfish.” And the third. “D for Determined.” The fourth, a word he’d been wanting to use for some time now. “B for Beautiful.”

“L for Loyal.” He continued, not risking a glance at her or else he’d lose all his nerve. “O for Open-Hearted. Another O for Outstanding. And D for Demure.” 

Once he finished tracing the last letter, he placed a kiss to her wrist, careful not to actually touch the scar with his lips, knowing how sensitive it could be. When he slowly rotated his head back to her, finding her eyes glistening with tears, he smiled and thumbed away the ones under her right eye. “That’s what those letters can stand for now, something positive and true, for the days when you look upon it and need to be reminded of who you really are underneath the cuts.”

Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, to muffle her cries as she felt her heart drop right then and there. There was no more resistance; she knew it most certainly, even if nothing else had turned her head in his direction that those eight descriptive words would’ve had her captivated. It was suddenly as if the grey skies had parted and sunlight shined upon her face for the first time in a year, the warmth radiating from his words, melting away the snow of depression and desperation that she waded through day in and day out.

In the next instant, she was throwing her arms around his neck, pulling him into her chest, squeezing him for all she was worth, unable to form any words in return. At first he braced his hands on either side of her upon the mattress, trying not to squash her yet not be so stiff that she would mistake his resistance and let go, but it was difficult to find middle ground before he caved and wrapped his arms around her in return, burying his face into the juncture of her neck and collarbone, breathing in her scent and feeling her body pressed against his. It was more than he had dared hoped for, and now it wasn’t enough.

He never wanted to let go.


	17. Tickles, Tears, Whispers & Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology leads to outer peace and inner turmoil.
> 
> Dinner leads to memories and promises.

Wendell sighed and snapped his fingers in an attempt to catch his wife’s attention. “For the love of all things holy, Mione, let them have some privacy!” he whisper-shouted at her, all but ready to peel her away from the door she practically hovered at. “For once they’re not shouting.”

“Yes, but-”

“Monica Jeanette Wilkins you get your busybody snooping nose away from that door right now or I’ll rub my sweaty socks all over your pillow.” He threatened, knowing the horrid smell of a hard working man’s feet was enough to turn her green around the gills. “They’re both adults…” he added, trying not to imagine just what two tension filled young adults were capable of doing to release said tension.

“And she’s our daughter-”

“Woman.” He intoned with that lowered brow and voice. “Step. Away.”

She sighed, muttering that she was only looking out for their best interests, and trying to prevent them from jumping headlong into something they could regret come morning.   
“I highly doubt they’re going to go that far.” The man said with more bravado than he felt. “She’s got that wand thing too if he gets too fresh.”

“Honestly Dell, you’re the reason she’s in there now. You know she wanted to speak further with us.” His wife huffed, throwing a couch pillow at him.

He allowed the cushion to assault his face before pulling it off and tucking it behind his back. “Thank you Love.” He replied ever so casually, knowing the tone would irk her further. “Surely you would need more time into considering the ramifications of having our memories played with? It’s going to take me more than a single afternoon to decide if I want to become a father of an adult girl suffering from PTSD and entertain the thought of possibly relocating back to England.”

“You’ve seen the albums. She looks just as I did at her age. There’s no denying it.”

“I’m not saying that dear, I’m well aware of who I see when I look at her and quite frankly it terrifies me-”

“Why? Because that means it’s true?”

He released a sigh of pent-up confusion and resignation. “Because that means we were terrible parents who sent our only child off to a school where she was embroiled in the middle of a blood feud and was nearly killed. Because of who and what we are she had to erase us from existence in order to protect us….” He shook his head. “Our home was burned to the ground and for all we know all our neighbors, friends, and relatives think we’re dead. We’ve no dental practice to fall back onto for financial support even if we did return. It would mean looking into her eyes and knowing the horrors she endured and that we weren’t there for her.”

He jumped to his feet and wiped his eyes sternly, stepping over to the three boxes and picking up the topmost photo album.

“We probably deserved to be sent away, if she couldn’t trust us with the truth of what was going on there.”

Monica was on her feet in an instant, coming up to hug him from behind. “Don’t you dare think that. What could we have done when we were sworn to keep the Statute of Secrecy? Suddenly go to Scotland Yard and tell the magistrate that not only was our daughter a witch but in the middle of a bloody wizarding war? Right. Off to the looney bin, no questions asked and you know it. She just skipped all the unnecessary twaddle and gave us this beautiful home and comfortable life-and us still being us.” She came around and met his face. “She didn’t change us Wendell, only our names. Names that can be relearned. I remember meeting you, falling in love, starting our joint practice, all that’s as true now as it was then. But it’s Swiss cheese and you know it. You know there’s something off around the holidays, in September…Why hesitate to fill in those blank spaces?”

He hung his head low enough to kiss the top of her forehead. “Because it scares me. Scares me that there’s magic out there that powerful and our own daughter used it on us. It could’ve easily been a gun. It’s unnerving to think that we might not have a choice in anything we do or say if she decides she doesn’t like it. Just a simple flick and suddenly we’re agreeing to let her have the keys to the car, just a flick and we’re handing her the credit cards, just a flick and we’re shaking hands with the first bloke to knock her up that we wouldn’t normally have given a pound to, but she’s got us convinced he walks on water. It’s just that easy.”

“You heard her, we were happy together. She made us proud. Why would we deny her the choices she makes as an adult? Do you honestly think she’d pick an obvious tosser? Do you think she’d be so careless? Because I don’t. Not if she went through all the trouble to provide for us.” She poked his chest. “All that meticulous planning sounds like something you’d do, covering all the bases and contingences.”

He gave a non-committal grunt. He knew it was true. If he knew he needed to hide his family for their safety, he’d procure false identification, pack up the essentials, leave behind the personal effects and plant a false trail leading into the opposite direction. Fake their deaths if necessary. Move all the way into a different hemisphere into a country with just the barest connection to the one they fled so they wouldn’t be too inconspicuous in their new environment.

Honestly, it was as if she’d taken a page from his supremely organized way of thinking, compartmentalizing and strategizing, using Vulcan worthy logic to see it through.  
And had given them apparently two years of life they wouldn’t even have had.

“You overthink Dell.” She chided softly, rubbing the worry lines in his creased forehead. “You weigh the pros and cons and double check, triple check, and revise until you are absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt. But you can’t apply that here. Just feel.” Her other hand rested above his heart. “Listen to this for once. Like you did twenty-five years ago. When you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would say yes.”

……………………………….

However he longed to hold her and not let up, he couldn’t deny that he’d been on his knees for a good long while and they were absolutely aching. With her seated on the edge of his bed and him between her thighs, arms wrapped around her waist and head nestled against her shoulder, he could claim that every other part of him was content with his current position. Thank god his floor was carpeted or else he’d have given the ghost long ago and taken a place beside her. Which would require a new arrangement of limbs.  
His thighs quivered from the exertion of supporting himself, but by the hairs of Merlin’s beard did he relish the feel of her. In front of him. Around him. Her hair dangling across a shoulder and cascading across his arm, tickling the fine hairs and enticing him to run his hands through it. He was surrounded by her in a room that had unwittingly become a shrine to her memory, like the Holy One himself waltzing into church and not noticing the décor.

“My knees…” he whispered weakly, unable to keep up the pretense.

“Ohmygod, of course, get up, come sit.” She gasped, immediately pulling him up and to the side, and he regrettably had to relinquish his arms from her snug waist and braced himself against the frame to push up from one shaking knee. It was embarrassing, really, but how further could one be reduced after prostrating themselves while begging for absolution? Oh if only his mother could see him now…

Finally sitting upright by her side he ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Sorry, but despite the carpeting that floor is hard as hell.”

“Well you don’t need to be on your knees for me, but I appreciate the gesture. At least I didn’t have to crane my neck up at you.”

He harrumphed. “Pixie.”

“Tree.” She shot back, elbowing him gently.

He sighed. “God, I’ve missed this.” He confessed. “Nobody has ever spoken to me like you do, always up for a verbal spar. It’s either been dictated orders or simply agreeing with me despite whatever nonsense I spat. No middle ground.”

“Yes, well perhaps we should set some parameters about what we can verbally spar about without it turning into-” her hands started gesturing.

“This morning?” he cut in.

She looked sheepish. “Yeah…about that…”

He started shaking his head and placed a hand out to suspend that potential apology. “Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for. Hell, I should just let you swear your little heart out at me for a solid hour, just rip into me and say everything you ever wanted to back when we were at school. Just get it all off your chest and be done with it.”

He hadn’t expected it, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when she took his outstretched hand and held it in her lap with her other hand on top. Her tiny, slightly paler than him hand with lovely gold trimmed nails, prettied up for her best friends’ wedding. A hand he would’ve asked a dance for, bowing respectfully and holding out his own, treating her like the lady she truly is. A hand that after the dance, he would’ve brought to his lips and kissed in gratitude. Beautiful little hands that fit inside his perfectly. Surprisingly strong hands that weren’t afraid to put him in his place. 

“I don’t think I have it in me to rant and rave about the ways you infuriated me, especially when I now know that half of it was just bluster-”

“Pardon?” he leaned in, curious as to how she came about that conclusion. “Do tell me how you’ve come to figure that one out.”

She froze like she’d been outed in front of a professor, knowing whatever answer she gave would not be satisfactory. But to tell him that she not only read his journal but that it was literally resting in her knapsack-along with his father’s!-so soon after finally lashing ropes from one side of the chasm to the other, a fragile start to the bridge they were building, would in fact be detrimental to his trust in her.

“Oh come on Draco…” she laughed nervously, eyes darting around his room. “You wouldn’t have apologized like that if you hadn’t felt this way for some time. And you clearly had already come a conclusion regarding me long before I arrived at the manor, so it requires little deduction to put it together that you in fact don’t hate-and didn’t hate me-like you pretended to.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow but allowed it. After all, she was the Brightest Witch of Her Age. “All right…” he conceded. “So my bark was bigger than my bite. I’m sure you can understand how difficult it was for me to keep up a certain appearance.”

Oh that was certainly an understatement. He’s surprised he didn’t crack sooner from all the pressure he was under, even before being branded and ordered to assassinate their headmaster. Every day of his school years had been an act worthy of an Emmy, keeping friends close and enemies closer, lying through his teeth while speaking certain truths in the same breath, trying to maintain top marks, win his Quidditch matches, and select a pureblood girl of good standing to become the next Mrs. Malfoy. Life was hard enough before Voldemort. And then after….

He shuddered.

“Hey, it’s ok Draco.” She softly soothed, her hand brushing along his left arm soothingly, bringing him out of his dark thoughts. “I know it’s hard…Sometimes the littlest thing sends me right back…”

He breathed in through his nose, quickly at first, then slowing into a normal cadence as she stroked along his arm, oblivious to the Dark Mark.

“Do you….I mean…well, can I… Can I hug you? Is it ok?” she asked in such a meek voice he wondered how she was ever able to disarm and fight against Death Eaters and werewolves. But how could he say no? Not with those imploring puppy eyes just wanting to offer a fit of solace in the way that came most naturally. 

“Tell you what; you can hug me all you want, as long as you scoot up to the headboard because my back is killing me.” he said, sliding backwards from her and nestling against his pillow, pressing it firmly against the simple wooden frame. He smiled smugly at her, resting his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles. “Well, you going to bequeath me one of your magical healing hugs or not?”

She squinted her eyes at him but couldn’t find it in herself to stay mad, since leaning against the board looked fabulously comfortable and she’d been locked into some sort of hunched over hug for who knows how long and caved, hitching her skirt above her knees and turning so she could crawl on them-around his lengthy legs-and take the spot off to his left. His throat became a hard knot as the sinewy form of Hermione Granger shuffling along his bed-on hands and knees-was a sight he hadn’t even dared imagine, and now would never forget.

Heaving a sigh that had him clenched, she eased up against his side and draped her left arm over him softly, covering his chest as his elbow and shoulder became a makeshift pillow for her head. “Is this alright?” she asked, unable to meet his face.

Fine? Oh it was heavenly….hellish….now that he was fighting to keep himself in check… Blimey buggering balls of fiendfyre why did I agree to let her do this?

“It’s f-fine.” He replied tightly. “Let’s just…take a break from all this heavy stuff and be normal.”

She chuffed out a little dismissive laugh. “Newsflash Draco but I haven’t been normal in years.”

He rolled his eyes. “As normal as people like us can get. You could tell me about the wedding if you like…What it was like being Head Girl…how that inter-house unity shit went…” he suggested, praying she’d pick something that didn’t involve anyone he particularly cared about and how they lamented his absence. He didn’t need that right now.  
For a moment she was quiet, the kind of quiet that drew concern, and then the sigh she released sounded as regretful as one could make which furrowed his brow even further as he wondered what could weigh so heavily on her conscience and she started retracting her hand which triggered the panicky thought that he would lose her bodily contact and thus his hand snuck out from underneath his head and clasped hold of hers. When she didn’t pull away he felt emboldened to interlace their fingers together. 

“It’s ok, you don’t have to tal-” he began before she cut him off.

“I was a terrible Maid of Honor.” She blurted out. “I was so focused on Lockhart that they nearly didn’t have their wedding on time, but we managed to pull through at that last week…thank god I had help. But even still, I barely put in the effort, I was just there…going through the motions.”

He knew that feeling all too well. It was how he survived seventh year.

“And?” he prompted, feeling she was not quite finished.

She shrugged. “I love them, they mean the world to me and yet I couldn’t be bothered to actually be there….All I could think about wa…well, never mind.” She shook her head dismissively. “The pictures will make it out like I’m having the time of my life but even Theo knew when I was reaching my limit.”

He nearly bolted upright. Theo? As in Theodore Nott? His friend and fellow Slytherin Theo?

“Theo was your date?” he practically shouted, the news a shock to his system. Just how well did this Inter-house unity thing go if she was with him and not Weasley?

She snorted with a smirk he could literally hear. “I told you, things were different this past year. Naturally I had to be the one to approach them, but after a while your trio of snakes and I started to get along. Without you, Ron, and Harry to stir the drama cauldron there wasn’t much for us to fight about and so we were actually able to study and work together and even have a few laughs.”

He found himself rubbing his thumb along the top of her hand, just imaging her laughing at Theo’s jokes, enduring Blaise’s attempts at Italian seduction, and Pansy finally giving her a makeover or at least some proper hair care tips. 

“Ok, I have to know, what did the Weasel do to be replaced as your wedding date?” he chuckled, thinking it something as trivial as not wanting to dance like he stubbornly refused to during Yule back in fourth year.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. At least, not right now.”

That sobered him up quickly.

“Course. You don’t have to tell me…It’s really none of my business.” He quickly replied, trying to mask his burning interest and the little touch of joy he was feeling knowing that the ginger idiot might have very well blown his chance with the little witch beside him. After all, she was here alone, and she seemed all too comfortable with the idea of being alone with him, touching him, laying in his bed with him…

Then, of all things, she yawned. Yawned and stretched, her body taunt and arched for a second before loosening and shuffling more into his side, her head nestling against him and nuzzling whether she realized it or not. He was still as stone, holding his breath, awaiting a sign to tell him what he was supposed to do for right now his brain failed to come up with anything of use.

“Ah, sorry…” she murmured, her sleep-riddled voice small and innocent. “Still on…England time….” She yawned again, fingers going slack in between his own, and before he knew what to even say, there was a steady heavy sounding pattern of breath and the tiniest of snores. 

Oh Mother of Merlin…Hermione Granger has fallen asleep on me….

………………………..

Eventually even Wendell had to concede to morbid curiosity when it had been well past an hour without a single outburst, or anyone emerging from the room. But as a man who respected privacy, he refrained from pressing an ear to the door or loudly clearly his throat before rapping his knuckles. If those two were snogging up a storm he didn’t want to see it, hear it, or know about it. And if they were doing more than that he prayed to god that they were using protection.

He didn’t want to ruin whatever moment might be happening, so he went back out into the fields to tend the sheep, with faithful Hamlet in tow-and kept up with the chores that Draco had taken over in the recent months. While he loved the life he had he wasn’t sure if it was what it was all cracked to be because while still spry enough to do this type of work, it was still hard and laborious and harder to bounce back from.

Perhaps merely the allure of open country and quiet had appealed to William Robert Granger, a man used to the hustle and bustle of a busy medical practice and nestled in a row of houses along a busy suburban street, but Wendell Wilkins had always second guessed his decision to own a small herd of sheep and live mostly off-grid in content retirement. He still itched to hold his delicate tools in hand, to scrape away the plaque and educate the young’uns about the importance of dental care. Does one ever truly retire from their passion? 

Maybe returning to England and being a dentist part-time wasn’t such a bad idea after all….

But it was well into the afternoon and enough time had passed that he was now the one bursting at the seams at their status. Had they come to a truce? Had they declared the past dead and buried? Or would they simply agree to tolerate each other for the duration of her stay, however long that may be? And speaking of staying….just where was she going to sleep every night? Answers he’d like to have by dinner.

So now he was doing a very undentist like thing-grinding his teeth-as he took a breath and quickly rapt his knuckles across Draco’s door, loud and abruptly in that authoritative way which left no room for playing ignorant and called out to the lad. He was rewarded with the startled sounds of someone who’d just come to from a nap, followed by a few seconds of fumbling before the door swung open with a breathless blond meeting the older man’s rich brown eyes-clear evidence of where Hermione got hers-and blurted out a rambled apology before being put out of his misery.

“Really Tom, er Draco…it’s no problem that you rested. But if you sleep the day away you’ll be up all night and we both know you don’t do well with that.”

The night brought nightmares. The longer one was awake in the dark, the louder the whispers of ghosts were, the closer the shadows seemed to creep, and the more frantic a heart beat in fear.

Hermione had stretched-her clothing all in place and looking no worse for wear-and claimed responsibility for the impromptu nap due to the jetlag and whole day of emotional tidal waves. How could he be upset with that innocent face and insistence of blame upon herself? The man smiled, waving off her worries.

“It’s completely natural to need a few days to adjust, goodness knows Mione and I both were taking to odd hours before we got it down pat.”

Hearing her father use her nickname in reference to her mother brought about a strange twinge in her chest as she forced a smile. While it meant that they hadn’t completely forgotten the name, it just meant that it would no longer be hers when/if they regained their true memories. There would definitely be a grace period of having to get names straight. Well, names wouldn’t be the only thing they’d struggle with…

“I already took care of things out there, so if you two still need to talk that’s fine, dinner should be around seven.” He said, pulling on the knob and turning away before either could make a protest or insist to jump in to help in any matter.

Having the room back to themselves, an awkward lull fell over the both of them. And then they both burst out with an apology to which the other was confused at receiving, then stopped, then tried to clarify only to speak at the same time once more. Now fully flustered and red-faced they took turns insisting the other go until they both started chuckling and dismissed the whole apology attempt in the first place.

Sitting back on his bed, they settled into a comfortable silence. Hermione felt the urge to say something, so she complimented his room. “I like this color.”

He grinned, shucking back some of his hair. “I picked it out.” He answered with a touch of pride. Really, the first room he ever had a say in how it got to be decorated, and it met the approval of Hermione Granger? How could one not be a little chuffed at that? In all honesty, he never quite liked the dark tones of the Slytherin dorms as much as he led on. The green lighting made for some unsettling color palettes and always took a minute to attune to upon arriving or leaving for the well-lit halls and other classrooms and even outdoors. Green and silver were a lovely combination when it came to dress but honestly there was only so much rich emerald one could take in an underwater dormitory.

“Did you now? So they really must like you.” She snickered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged her shoulders inward and swung her bare feet off the side of the mattress. “Means I didn’t get to pick my bedroom color growing up. It was automatically a pastel pink…”

The snort escaped him before he could prevent it, and then he was doomed to follow through with the laugh even though he brought his hand up to hide it. She had her face scrunched up, trying not to give in and just shook her head with a sigh. 

“I’m the favorite.” He smugly teased.

“Pshaw, you’re the adopted roadkill they pitied.” She jabbed.

He broke the laughter with a mock gasp and then pounced on her with fingers primed and ready for tickling. She fell back, squirming and shrieking as he started in on her ribs, demanding she take that back with her begging for mercy. Anyone with ears could tell it was a tickle fight and not a murder in-progress as they tussled on his bed top, a mess of limbs and hair until one stray hand came across someone’s nose and he reared back with watering eyes, wincing as he dropped onto his back with her startled gasp in horror that she’d hurt him yet again. She immediately threw a leg over and straddled him while pulling his hands away so she could see the damage she had once again caused.

When Draco blinked back the instant reaction tears and thought he might’ve died and gone to heaven, looking up into the concerned face of his angelic former nemesis, eyes bright with clarity and focused, her hands holding his head delicately, her body pressed against him, legs…on either…side…

“Ohmygoodness, I’m so sorry!” she whispered frantically, searching the shape of his nasal bridge for signs of healing incorrectly from the evening prior. “And I never healed your nose from last night!”

“Seems to be your favorite target…” he mused bitterly, trying to not let his body betray him in any way. Did she just have a knack for crawling all over guys or was he just lucky?

“Tickle at your own risk Draco.” She chided, patting her hip for her wand, only to not find it in the holster.

“It’s over there.” He answered her unspoken question, pointing above his head to the nightstand where she had deposited the wand earlier when she first nestled in next to him. “You napped darling, remember?”

“Hold on…” she said, leaning over his prone form, her chest smushing right against his already tender nose as she stretched her hand outwards towards the magical tool. “Accio wand.”

Ok…I could die a happy man here I guess…

Completely unaware of what her actions were doing to the poor former wizard, Hermione only had the vaguest sense that her breasts were rubbing against something, that her thighs were brushing against something, that his hands just so happened to be pressing firmly against said thighs…

She leaned back into a sitting position and held her wand aloft. “Please don’t move, I don’t want to give you a nose like Owen Wilson.”

“Can I sue you for malpractice if you do?” he quipped, just the barest smirk stretching across his lips as he remained otherwise frozen in place as the wandtip came closer, bringing back the unpleasant memory of having that pressed against his throat back in third year. Right before the infamous punch.

“Episkey.” She incanted, waving over his cartilage and he felt the inside shift-uncomfortably he might add-as the split pieces fused back together and opened up the canal. “There ya go. All better.” She replied cheerfully, holstering the wand and smiling like a damn first year, all bubbly and cute.

God damn that smile was too cute.

“Oh yes, all better.” He replied dryly.

“I’m sorry…I have a tendency to just kinda…” she gestured with her hands to indicated just what exactly they were capable of, and had done on many an occasion. 

“Granger, you’re killing me.” he pleaded, her body jiggling with the hand gestures.

She stopped suddenly. “Oh? Did I hurt something else?” she inquired, suddenly roving over his form, hands on his chest.

Sweet Salazar does she seriously not know?

“Stop. Please.” He begged. 

“Well if I’ve hit you elsewhere just point it out and I’ll-”

“For the love of God, Hermione, please. Get. Off. Me.” he intoned seriously, snatching both her wrists with his seeker-reflex hands, finally grasping her attention.

“Sor-”

“And stop apologizing, for fuck sake.” Came the throaty growl, his eyes darkened with blown pupils. His nostrils flared as he tried to calm himself with slow breaths. Then he shut his eyes whispering “It was an accident, I’m fine, everything’s fine…”.

“Everything doesn’t sound fine…” she pouted.

Lord give me strength…

And then it dawned on him. She really had no idea. Like, in all honesty, completely oblivious to sexual innuendos and scenarios, total ingénue material.

He blinked several times as this revelation hit him. Surely not…

But then again…

“Do you get your kicks being on top?” the snarky comment flew out of his mouth before he could stop it.

She huffed. “I’m not getting any kicks…I was fixing…” then her pupils widened, her mouth rounded, her body froze… “Oh… I’m… On… Top….” Pure mortification crossed her face as the pieces clicked and she yanked her wrists free and sprang off the bed with more grace than a cat, out the door in a flash as he finally exhaled and drew his hands across his face.

“Fucking great.” He chided himself with a slap to his forehead. “That’s it, embarrass the girl to death. Excellent job, idiot.”

……………………………

The safest place she knew she could be was the bathroom.

It automatically ensured privacy. 

She ran the tap and splashed cold water on her face, patting her cheeks and dabbing her collarbone as she replayed the scene over and over again in her mind, finally catching onto what Draco had been politely hinting at, mortified that she’d been as oblivious as a flobberworm to the whole thing. She practically threw herself at him and he’d maintained the gentlemanly grace to take it in stride for as long as possible.

Oh my god, I gave Malfoy a boner.

She faithfully reenacted the Home Alone bathroom scream-having warded the room for silence first-and let out her humiliation in one long drawn out wail that would’ve otherwise alerted the countryside to her aid. Bad enough to have developed a crush on the guy but then to go so far and do… She shook her head and slapped her cheeks, the sting meeting cold water bringing her back to her senses.

Damnit, this wouldn’t have happened if I had more experience with guys.

She began smoothing out her hair in an attempt to look collected while ruminating her pathetically short list of encounters with the opposite sex, never having even experienced more than a handful of kisses and small touches. The brief time she and Ron considered themselves to be “dating” yet never actually have gone out on a date, and the case of mistaken identity from a drunken Slytherin one evening earlier that year in school didn’t count as positives but they were all she had. And now she’d just pawed at, climbed over, and accidentally turned on the one guy she was most certain didn’t look at her in that way.

She’d overheard enough jovial talk amongst the boys in the dorms about how the slightest bit of friction could get them hard as stone-especially if they’d gone without “it” for a given length of time. At the time she rolled her eyes and pretended to not hear, thinking it was exaggerations-as well as the lengths they claimed to be, honestly, did guys really talk about that kind of thing?-and quickly sought a reason to not be in the vicinity post haste.

Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor after all.

Once satisfied with the near bath she’d just given herself after all that splashing and patting, she dried off and exited with all the grace she could summon, determined to put the whole incident out of mind and hoping he’d be doing the same. After all, they just laid down their arms and put a cease fire to all the years of negativity, there was sure to be a few bumps along the way until they found their feet. Perhaps abstaining from tickle fights should be put on the list of things not to do, right up there with disparaging remarks about each other’s friends and their actions in the war….oh boy, what a list they were going to have…

And most definitely not climbing the damn tree either.

Flushing all over again, she nearly missed it when her father addressed her. “So, quite the apology I take it?”

She nodded, coming in and claiming the familiar spot in which she’d sat in earlier on the sofa. “That last bit was just us being silly.”

“There’s no need to have to explain everything that happens. Especially if it’s behind closed doors. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you’re fully capable of making your own choices.”

“As if I would be so uncouth.” Draco slid into both the room and conversation with precise timing, saving her from having to respond to that statement. “Despite my disrespectful behavior in school I was raised to treat every girl like a lady. Granger here happened to be the exception to that rule…in fact my father downright encouraged my bullying of her and I refuse to continue living in his shadow even all the way on this side of the planet.”

Something blossomed within her chest at those words, unable to prevent the smile from spreading across her face like the lovesick second year fawning over a golden haired professor. 

“Glad that’s settled.” Wendell stated dryly, aiming the remote at the television and flipping through a few more channels. “Now that that issue has been put to bed I suppose we can discuss in length about this magic business and just what it is we’re getting ourselves into.”

“Dell!” Monica admonished from her hidden spot in the kitchen. “I told you we would bring it up at dinner!”

He craned his neck over to the opposing wall to catch a glimpse of the clock. “Close enough.” He shrugged. Draco braced his knuckles against his mouth to prevent himself from actively chuckling out loud.

“I think we’ll be discussing it at great length, so now is as good a time as any to start.” Hermione perked up, eager to please and thrilled that her parents still retained that stalwart ability to give people the benefit of a doubt and so willingly accepted the fact that magic did indeed exist and were perfectly fine with that. 

No wonder McGonagall has sung their praises.

It surprised her when Draco marched into the kitchen and successfully booted the matriarch out, taking over the rest of the meal preparation so she could join in the conversation with their wayward daughter. For a moment Hermione’s jaw had remained unhinged at the act, twisting herself so she could look over the back of the couch and see for herself. It was one thing for him to have prepared tea and toast, but actually cook dinner?

“Quit starting Granger, it’s rude.” His voice cheerfully chimed out from behind a cabinet door as he extracted a can of sauce and then dipped into a drawer for the opener. All while having his back turned to her.

She flushed and felt foolish for being so easily sussed out and slunk back into a normal sitting position. She turned to her mother. “He cooks?”

Monica preened like a proud momma peahen. “What do you think we taught him all this year? Australian history?”

It was a rare occasion when Hermione was as chagrinned as she was now, and not even two years of a new identity had taken the woman’s ability to serve it piping hot and fresh as she always had. Great debates between the impassioned women had been one of their more notable past times, even to the bane of William Granger’s existence. More often than not he had to step in to be a mediator, a peacekeeper, and even a referee. 

Conversations between Hermione and William however, were by far more mellow and logical, fueled on intellectual evidence and strong theories that were yet to be proven false. They could go at length on the mechanics of flight, time travel, industrial achievements and law. That, and of course, the ins and outs of dentistry.

She started out much like in the way a teacher would with young students, often describing the machinations with analogies in comparison to what they knew of television shows and Hollywood films. It was astonishing actually on how much the wizarding culture had been leaked through in that manner, but then again it was the perfect camouflage for explaining strange occurrences and oddly dressed people and even weirder behaviors most muggles weren’t accustomed to. Course, like the way most people believed aliens existed merely from the sake of probability, many people accepted that magic and so-called mythical creatures existed because of ancient texts and sculptures depicting them from across every culture that had ever formed-it’s just that most didn’t believed they still did from the lack of physical evidence.

“It’s all been well hidden with barriers and repelling spells that turn away anyone without a magical core within them.”

“Like us?” Wendell pointed to himself and his wife.

Hermione nodded.

“Then how do you have magic?”

At this, she inhaled slowly. This was the whole crux of the prejudice between the pureblood society and the muggleborns. If two pureblood parents could have non-magical offspring, then surely it was to do with the non-magical people somehow stealing it and giving it to their own. Utter rubbish that had no backing whatsoever. She was hesitant to answer. Hesitant if what she said might upset Malfoy. Hesitant for a moment that he might pipe up with the answer he’d always been raised to believe.

But none of that happened.

She noticed it had gone awfully quiet in the kitchen.

“That’s still not fully understood.” She answered at last. 

“If I may?” his timbre hovered over her head, sending a chill down her spine as his hands rested on either side of her shoulders, leaning in so the couch creaked just enough to let her know he was quite literally right behind her. Now that he had the room, he used the attention to his advantage and seemed in no hurry to explain anything. “Don’t worry, it’s on a simmer.” He stated when Monica began to shift in her chair.

“What Hermione says is true, we don’t understand the phenomenon of a magical child coming from non-magical parents, just as we have the opposite problem with a non-magical child coming from a pureblood magical family. They’re referred to as Squibs and more than often not, cast out of the family and dropped into muggle society to be cared for.”

Monica was aghast with the thought of abandoning a child merely because it did not meet the required standards of living amongst its own family. Then again, the Spartans did the same, hurling sickly infants to their deaths, cultivating a society of strong warriors.

Wendell cocked his head with a ponderous twist to his features for a moment. “If you abandon these non-magical children into the moogle society, surely they are the ones who as adults, carry their family’s genetics and pass them onward and thus create a magical child or grandchild.”

Draco tipped his head to acknowledge that strand of logic. “Yes, there are some Squibs that have been traced back to their original families, having kept the last name. But more often than not, they are obliviated and dropped off at an orphanage and thus have no knowledge of whom they belong to and the trail is cut off. You must understand that having a Squib is considered the worst thing that could happen to a family. Worse than a person with special needs or other handicap. The only Squib I’ve ever known was our school caretaker, and he was cantankerous and bitter because even a clueless first year student could perform magic while he could not. That light up trick Hermione did with her wand? He wouldn’t have been able to do even that. He had to rely on a lantern to make his way.”

Hermione could hear it in his voice, Draco now having lived without magic; he could now understand the man’s bitter disposition in life and all the frustrations of seeing it used so freely by children without a second thought. Like being in a wheelchair and everyone else around you is dancing. 

“How did he remain then?” Monica asked.

This time Hermione answered. “Dumbledore took him in. He was our Headmaster… He saw potential in everyone…”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tanned and calloused hand grip the back of the sofa. She heard his intake of breath as he steeled himself against the guilt and terror of what he was forced to do, of what he witnessed firsthand. Without sparring a second to doubt her actions, she was bringing her hand up and covering it with her own, her delicate fingers offering comfort against the top of his hand, grazing his knuckles and giving him the reassurance that he was not being judged for the night in the Astronomy tower.

He didn’t flinch away, but she felt him tense up before easing down, once again in control of himself and no doubt masking his expression. She was incredibly grateful that for once, she couldn’t see it, or him seeing hers, for she was uncertain how she even appeared on the surface. Underneath, she was a whir with worry that she might’ve overstepped and he was merely being polite in front of her parents. She wouldn’t be surprised if he brought it to her attention after dinner that she needed to keep her hands to herself and tried not to be upset over the imaginary confrontation.

With the television on mute, there was only the sound of a bubbling pan and the soft thud of a dog’s tail thumping against the side of the recliner as he received tiny scratches as the man set aside the remote. A rerun episode of the original Star Trek aired; everyone’s exaggerated movements comical without sound effects and dialogue to indicate anything other than a bizarre dance from the sixties.

“Hermione and I are opposites on the spectrum of wizarding society. I come from not just old money, but old tradition and a lengthy family tree than can be traced back a thousand years.” He said neutrally, no hint of pride to his words at all. “My heritage stemmed from marriages arranged to better improve our power and place in times of uncertainty, so that no matter who was at war we had land, title, and prestige and were often sought after for resources and alliances. Hence, my name is on a list known as the Sacred Twenty Eight, nothing more than a glorified ‘Who’s Who’ of the top tier wizarding families.” He snorted at the end of that statement, finding no glory to be included with most of those names any longer.

She almost expected a jab at the Weasley family, for their lack of house elves and wealth, but he’d been there during the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d seen the mighty red-haired clan in action for himself and could not deny they had strength in numbers-numbers that help lead to victory. They may have lost Fred, but Molly sure made up for it with the devastating blow to his insane aunt, avenging so many in one fell swoop.

“Almost like royalty?” the mother prodded.

“Almost.” He concurred. “So you can imagine the entitled little shit I was in school.”

Hermione lost composure and let out a sputtering, snorting giggle as she tried to hold it in. Hearing Draco Malfoy refer to himself as an entitled little shit was just one of many things she never expected to hear from his mouth. She started to pull her hand back since her other one was currently pressed underneath her nose but felt an unmistakable tug as he maneuvered from under her fingers and placed his thumb into her palm, wrapping his fingers in place.

Wendell, being off to the left, did not see the subtle hand movement, but he was aware of something with how Hermione stilled and quickly she ended her laughter. His wife’s eyes were practically twinkling all through the conversation, watching intently as the two young adults behaved far more amicably than before.

“And then we have dear Hermione here….” He continued, cascading more tingles down her back, skin prickling into gooseflesh at the endearment. “She shows up like a bolt out of the blue, hair as wild as her fighting spirit, fingers clutched around an already well-worn copy of Hogwarts: A History, hand in the air to every question every professor asked, reciting verbatim the answer from our textbooks, flicking her wand with dainty precision and walking the halls like she was meant to be there….except she came from nothing, no one of importance-or so I thought-and no amount of digging through the genealogical archives could explain where she sprang forth.”

The gooseflesh prickled tighter as her breath all but stopped.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first, that the brilliant yet brash girl with slightly large teeth who had yet to fail in anything was a common muggleborn. It went against everything I’d been taught to believe of them. I thought for certain with her being sorted into Gryffindor that she’d be just another loud and proud, uncivilized annoyance, wondered why she hadn’t been placed in the Ravenclaw house is she was so bright, and kept doing my damndest to usurp her in every way. Which I’ll have you know was no easy feat and required years of plotting and resorting to cheating to accomplish.” He confessed easily, his right hand now sitting upon her shoulder, patting it affectionately.

“Yet for all my pedigree, I fell second to her in most things.” He added a beat later, allowing time for the compliment to sink in not only for her but the parents as well. “And thus we have our rivalry, wrapped in a nutshell-sans Harry Potter and Weaselbee. Those two were enough of a headache of their own, but Weasley is also a pureblood like myself, and Potter is half-blood. Yet they rode your coattails all year long, didn’t they?”

It took her a moment to realize the last part was a question directed at her, having taking a tap upon her shoulder for her to snap out of the slight daze he’d created in her mind and pull her back to the here and now.

“…A bit…” she confessed, somewhat embarrassed that it was true, and that he knew it. Then again, it wasn’t really a surprise was it?

He still hadn’t released his hold on her hand, fingers grasping lightly to remind her that it was still there, at his mercy. She was by no means pinned down and unable to escape-if anything, a simple little tug on her part would end the contact completely-but she wasn’t sure of the protocol required in this situation. Should she take her hand back? Was he doing this to make her feel as uncomfortable as she made him feel? Or was this something else? Was he merely returning the kind gesture she originally offered?

“There have been other theories as a means to explain how muggleborns come about, some believing that for every pure or half-blood that dies the magic is then dispersed back into nature and thus is born anew into the closest receptive host. And then there are those who believe that perhaps they are what is referred to as an Originator; simply put, the first of their lineage. That magic is freely obtained but only when the circumstances of one’s birth aligns with celestial bodies and days of the calendar which allow for more magic than usual to be obtained at the time of conception.”

Hermione was certain her cheeks were aflame now as she tried aggressively to not conjure any images of conception-creating and played the look on her face as contemplative. “Oh wow…I haven’t heard that one…” she practically panted, not even realizing he’d finally disengaged his hold onto her hand as his right traced along her neck when he pulled away and retreated to the kitchen. When her left hand fell limply into her lap she brought her right one up to press tightly against the heated spot on her neck where his finger trailed and leaned into it, turning it into a full neck rub that resulted in popping the vertebrae in a satisfying crack. 

“Spaghetti’s done!” he called, opening the oven to remove the buttered garlic bread and expertly spaced out meatballs on the baking sheet.

Hermione could not have been happier for the distraction that was dinner, putting an end to the awkwardness she felt during that entire conversation and the subtle yet intense touch that left her more confused than anything else. When the four came to the table-already set-she immediately noted that her parents were side-by-side rather than across like they were that morning. In fact, the entire chair arrangement had been changed so there was no longer a seat at each side of the rectangular table, but set side-by-side. She cast a curious brow in Draco’s direction, watching as he handled the hot pot with mitted hands and moved so fluidly it was almost akin to a dance.

Then as soon as she touched the back of her chair to pull it out, his padded paw came down from above. “Allow me.” he said, thoroughly rendering her speechless as he removed the chair out from under the table and indicated for her to sit. She blinked. Several times consistently, wondering if each time she did that she’d just imagined the whole thing and he wouldn’t be there with an outstretched hand covered in a colorful patchwork of cotton waiting for her to be seated.

“Don’t leave me hanging.” He teased, although he felt like he put himself on the spot with the gesture.

“H-have we met?” her voice came out a little higher than usual, forcing her to cough to clear her throat. “The Draco I know-”

“The Draco you knew and the Draco you should’ve known are two entirely different people.” He firmly interjected, not wanting her to finish that sentence. “And the Draco you should’ve known is pulling a chair out for you. This is where you sit and say thank you, in case if you’re unfamiliar with the protocol.”

Ah, that familiar snark. That was refreshing, snapping her out of her shock and following through with his somewhat abrasive suggestion as she pulled herself up to the tabletop and with all the dignity she could muster, replied with a formal and clipped ‘thank you’ as she whipped out her napkin and set it in her lap. Of all the days to wear a white skirt….

The Wilkins sat, amused, sharing a side-eye glance to each other as they pulled out their napkins. The scene was all too familiar for them, some twenty-odd years ago when a very polite and formal Wendell pulled out the chair for a highly independent and stubborn Monica who insisted on not being treated like she was incapable merely based on her gender, thus leading to quite the debate in the restaurant on the ethics of gentlemanly chivalry in the era of modern empowered women, which led to a very impassioned shag later that evening.

Draco thoroughly enjoyed his role as chef and server, for once he set the hot pan of pasta on the table runner he dug the slotted spaghetti spoon into the pile of noodles and gracefully plopped a hefty amount onto Monica’s plate, then reached over and did the same for Wendell, holding his aloft to avoid the risk of a stray slipping through the hole. He then turned to Hermione, waiting for her refusal.

“Oh…uh…yes please.” She stammered, watching as he dug once again and brought out a reasonable amount and carefully plated it. It was as if she’d entered the Twilight Zone. He offered sauce, gracefully ladling the marinara upon the nest of noodles like it was an art and placing the meatballs on top with all the panache of a culinary school graduate.  
When he took his seat beside her she was bewildered and slightly turned on without a comprehensible reason why for nothing he’d done had been considered sexy, and yet it was stimulating portions of her brain that she now believed had short circuited.

Willing her nerves to not betray her, she turned her fork and cut into the meatball, noting the green specks as fresh basil and the little white bits as crushed garlic. It had been too long since the last time she’d even dined with them, let alone her mother’s famous meatballs. They smelled just the same, looked the same…

She brought the morsel to her mouth, watching the steam waft from the little chunk of ground beef, savoring its scent the closer it came, blowing on it just a bit before setting it on her tongue, lolling it about for a second as the heat filled her mouth, the juiciness of it causing more salivation before she bit into it. The explosion of familiar flavor came gushing forth, along with fond memories of comforting meatballs and pasta after a hard day at school, of rainy days when a bowl and twirling fork was the best thing while sitting on the couch, of the fun it was to slurp a noodle into the gap where a newly missing tooth provided, and of the last time she’d had such a dinner, unaware at the time of its significance.

Before she knew it, tears were streaming down her cheeks, hot and salty as one made its way into the crease of her lips, mixing with the flavorful trigger. They were perfect. Utterly perfect as they’d always been. And this time, it wasn’t Mum who had made them… And he excelled. Just the right amount of salt, garlic, basil, and thyme. Perfectly browned on top and sprinkled with parmesan. Rolled into the perfect sized ratio that allowed for even cooking.

Just. Absolutely. Perfect.

A hand, large and warm encompassed her left, squeezed it gingerly, delicately, reassuringly. 

“Oi, what’s the matter?” Wendell perked up, sitting right across from her.

But she couldn’t speak.

Draco rubbed his thumb along her hand. “I suppose I got the recipe just right.” He replied softly. Monica’s eyes were already watering and she dabbed furiously at them to make it stop.

“Excuse me.” Hermione whispered, pulling away from Draco’s comforting caress and the concerned eyes of two people who had no idea just how much this meal meant to her, fleeing to the sanctuary of the bathroom once again.

All eating stopped.

“I should go see to her…” Monica suggested, the maternal pull strong despite the lack of memory.

“No, she needs to sort herself out. On her own.” Draco said, knowing all too well how many times he’d broken down in that same bathroom, turning on the radio and showerhead to mask the sounds. The utter lack thereof told him she’d placed a silencing ward on the little room. “A lot of things are going to be overwhelming for her. She loves you two more than anything, I hope you can see that. She’s trying so hard to remain in control but I know when she’s itching to cast a spell. All she wants is for you two to remember her.”

His eyes roved over her empty seat, where Hamlet was giving it the intense canine stare that begged for the chance to have the plate if the human wasn’t going to finish it. He knew he’d gotten the recipe right the last time, but with Mrs. Wilkins overseeing him like a professor judging his work. This time, he’d done it all on his own without her guidance, recalling all his dedicated studies in Potions class memorizing the time and temperature and exact measurements.

He usually expected fine results from his endeavors, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the unexpectedly strong emotional response. Not a moan of delight or exclamation that it was excellent or pleased grunts. Just tears. Tears he knew that carried such weight attached to such a little thing. But wasn’t it often said that the littlest things were the one that had the most impact? Would he also not weep at the first taste of the orange glazed roast duck and rosemary seasoned potatoes with a glass of the elf crafted chardonnay from their own vineyards?

“What if we don’t?” Wendell prompted of the young man across him. “You heard her earlier; there is a chance it might not work.”

Oh Draco had heard alright. He hung on every word of that conversation. But if she managed to restore the life and times of one mind-wiped poncey professor then she sure as hell could summon their original memories from the depths of their minds. They already had little moments of clarity of their own. He half expected part of the reason they even allowed her to stay was due to her familiarity to them that they couldn’t place but trusted, along with the evidence he’d found and what he’d told them. If anything, he was certain that his presence had helped on the matter. Maybe it would be what would make the difference.

Draco wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be in there, but he wanted to say something and be sure of it.

“You didn’t know me, yet you took me in, cared for me when not a soul elsewhere did. I’d be dead and there’s no doubt on that. And despite how hard it was for me to open up and accept your kindness for just what it was; I’ve come to care about the two of you as if you were blood relations.”

Hell, he hardly had any left and unfortunately never got to know some throughout his childhood.

“I haven’t asked for anything in return from you, mainly because I wouldn’t even know what to ask for. But now I know. I want you to promise me you’ll give it a shot. Not for me, but for her. If there’s a snowball’s chance in hell she brings it all back it’ll be worth it. She’s an amazing person and I wasted so many years not being able to see that….”

His eyes began to sting as he realized his words were starting to sound like more than what a friend would say…

“I just want her happy again.”

Monica slid her hand into that of her husband’s, grasping on it tightly as Draco made his request. Her heart was split between being broken for the young girl who looked at them with all the love in the world, and warmed with the plea of a young man they’d seen grow and change right before their very eyes. Love was a powerful thing.

She already knew she would. Right here and now if Hermione so much as asked.

But she couldn’t take the journey without her husband.

“Alright then.”


	18. Exposure Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione figures out that her parents have retained their memories, all she needs to do is trigger them back to the surface by exposure to tangible things.
> 
> Meanwhile Draco employs new tactics to get under her skin.

“I just want her happy again.”

When she stepped out of the bathroom, she had yet to remove the silencing ward, making no sound as she opened the door and stepped into the hall, her breath caught in her throat as she caught the tail end of Draco’s confession, sounding wistful and full of regret that he was the cause for so much of her distress.

She was about to round the corner of the hall when Wendell’s voiced replied in turn with just two words.

“Alright then.”

It sounded like an agreement of sorts, like whatever Draco had said before was a request, ending with the confession for her happiness and the man she called Father agreeing to it. She wasn’t sure she should let them know she’d overheard, so she retreated backwards and undid the silencing spell, making as much noise as possible as she re-exited the bathroom.

She had slipped back into her seat, apologized for her abrupt outburst, assured them she was fine, mentioned how wonderful the meatballs were-all while staring at the little rounds of meat rather than making eye contact-and dug in. She was so nervous she accidently slurped a noodle too hard and it whipped against her nose just before passing her lips, leaving a smudge of sauce which got Draco snickering as Monica dabbed her nose and did a little “Ahem.” to bring it to her attention.

After the meal she sat in quiet contemplation over what the matter could’ve been as she watched Draco pack the leftovers away in Tupperware and then fill the sink to start washing. Her knee-jerk urge to offer help almost had her up and out of her seat before the mindreader ordered her to stay put or go to the living room because he most definitely did NOT need help washing a few plates. Just as well, she was wearing the wrong kind of blouse to be helping with that anyways.

“Have you seen this?” Monica held up a black and bright yellow VHS tape with Bruce Willis and a rocket ship on the cover. “It debuted in the theaters last year.”

Hermione inspected the cover, reading the back synopsis. Something about an asteroid on a collision course with earth so the best way to deal with it is to send professional oil drillers to land on it, drill down and plant a few nuclear bombs to destroy the giant rock before it reaches a certain point in Earth’s gravitational field.

“Steven Tyler sings the hit song; you might’ve heard it on the radio.” She added.

“Oh that…I don’t wanna miss a thing song?” Hermione asked. She’d caught it once or twice. Then again, his wild caterwauling and odd vocalizations kind of turned her off to it and she quickly changed the channel. “Isn’t his daughter in this?”

“Yes. She was in Empire Records, remember? You asked us what happened when she brought Rex his lunch…” she said, a giggle in her throat before she realized just what happened and her voice quickly turned into a gasp. “Oh my god…” her eyes went wide, matching Hermione’s as her jaw popped open.

“What’dyou just say?” Wendell all but fell out of his chair, mouth also hanging open.

Monica shook her head in the shock of it all. “The movie…” she looked back at Hermione, then at her husband. She remembered when the first time they saw it and the embarrassed flush that overcame her face when the darling girl tilted her head to the side and asked “Did he just whip his cock out?” at the Rex Manning lunch scene. What followed was a paused film and an awkward conversation between mother and daughter as Wendell-no, William-made a hasty exit claiming to need to tinker in the garage for the next thirty minutes before she called him back up and they finished watching the film.

“You remembered…?” Hermione whispered, daring to not get her hopes up.

Monica nodded. “Yes, I…did…?” The feeling was strange. Just a tiny glimpse out of that snow globe she’d been peering from, finally wiping enough fake snow away to actually see something in its completion. There was another life out there, and it was calling out to her.

Hermione felt a high pitch, almost hysteric laugh bubble up from her before she could stop it, the breath in her lungs going out harsh but coming back in slow, as she tried to capsulate what just happened and how she should go about it. Her mother just remembered something from her life as Mrs. Jeanette Granger with a teenage daughter….and all because of a movie and mention of an actress.

“Ohmygod….” She whispered when she finally was able to articulate. “We need….we need to stimulate your brains!” her eyes shot open wide-as did everyone else’s, with Draco coming out of the kitchen bewildered as fuck. Hermione was literally hopping up and down with the epiphany cultivating and swirling like the makings of a hurricane. “Don’t you see? It’s all about memory association! If I expose you to things such as a film we watched together or a place went to…something to trigger up a memory…you two could actually help unobliviate yourselves!”

Draco slowly clapped. “That is brilliant, actually.” Just like the meatballs had been for her, bringing up a storm of memories, the same could be done for the Wilkins. “That is bloody perfect since you would be working at your own pace rather than have the spell force too much on you.”

“Ok, ok, let’s slow down. After all, we just ate.” Wendell said, holding his hands out like he was directing traffic. “Like all great ideas sprung forth at night, it won’t pass the test until it’s exposed to the light of day.”

Draco turned and cocked his head over his shoulder. “Really? You couldn’t just say ‘sleep on it’ like a normal person?”

“I never claimed to be normal.” The older man countered with a grin. He then glanced over at the two women. “I think it’s brilliant too, but I don’t want to give the greenlight and have us overwhelm ourselves all night. So we’ll agree that it will be our game plan starting tomorrow. Until then, let’s enjoy our usual after dinner movie like we tend to do. After all, we just finally found that in stores.”

Hermione glanced back at the VHS tape, still wrapped in its cellophane seal. Australia tended to fall last when it came to trends, sometimes taking months for things to pop up in their stores that have already crossed the coastline of American and Europe. “You do a movie every night?”

Draco plopped himself on the couch once again, stretching to take up as much space as possible. “Darling, how do you think I get educated on the current trends? Learn how people talk, dress, and what is influential? Can’t pass for normal if I don’t understand quotes or references. Plus, it helps keep me updated on the music scene as well. I mean I’m good, but I’m no Steven Tyler.” He laughed.

Monica extracted the cassette from her. “Go sit and I’ll pop it in.”

She approached the couch cautiously, waiting for Draco to move his unfairly long leg-which he did at his own pace-and nestled back into the cushion she was already starting to think of as her regular spot. After all, it was where she had spent a good portion of her day here. Draco propped his feet up on the wooden coffee table, but seeing as neither parent complained it must’ve been allowed. And here she had worried about tracking in dirt so she had forgone wearing shoes!

After the woman finally got the movie unwrapped and tucked into the VCR, Wendell took command and started fast forwarding through some of the previews. She remembered holding out a timer, counting how long it took to get through some just on fast forward alone as he held the remote like a wand, aimed at the screen, waiting for that telltale Feature Presentation to pop up. It was one of the more silly little things they did. She almost couldn’t sit still, the excitement of her mother remembering something and the promise that they would start exposure tomorrow almost making it too hard to concentrate on the film.

It did have its moments though, extremely hilarious despite the severity of the situation, with memorable quotes she’d probably remember for decades, especially one little nugget between Ben Affleck and Peter Stormare.

A.J. Frost: “Have you ever heard of Evel Knievel?

Lev Andropov: “No, I never saw Star Wars.”

She couldn’t help but break into a giggle fit over that one, with Draco turning and pointing at the screen, exclaiming that was precisely what he was trying to avoid and thus needed the unorthodox education of cinema and televised programs.

“Wait, you’ve seen Star Wars?” she asked, realizing he caught the mistake of the Russian character.

He beamed at her. “Of course I have. All three of them. Even the new one. Sheesh Granger it’s like you’ve been living under a rock…”

She shoved his arm. “A magical rock called Hogwarts I’ll have you know. So allow me some leeway on not being on top of current muggle culture.”

He mussed her hair, loving the ways her eyes lit with an internal fire at the defilement of her curls. “Told ya I knew more than you did.” He teased, seeing out of his peripheral how Monica was trying to contain herself.

Oh wouldn’t Professor Burbage be proud….

He swallowed the lump of bile in his throat at the random thought and tried not to remember how he’s last seen her, instead hyper-focusing on the film and being brought to tears when Bruce Willis took Ben Affleck’s place, making him swear to take care of his daughter.

Such a Harry move….

Something Potter would’ve probably done too….

Hell, something he had done hadn’t he?

~ Harry Potter is dead. From now on, you put your faith in me…. ~

Oh how those words were cold sharp blade into his chest. After every horror he endured, after all the pain he’d suffered, and the lie he told to save the kid…dead…now there was no hope, the Wizarding World was at the mercy of the noseless fuck and his giant snake, laughing maniacally in his preconceived victory as everyone around him felt a piece of themselves die.

And then the miracle happened….

He felt a small hand slip into his, give it a squeeze and stay in place, snapping him out of the dark tunnel of memories. He gave the slightest turn of his head, meeting a pair of glistening whiskey colored eyes, drowning in their shared pain as he realized the film brought back her own set of personal terrors. He squeezed back.

It’s ok, I felt it too…

Had she said it? Had he merely thought it in his head? Didn’t matter, it was still true.

The credits began to roll, the song started, along with snippets of wedding footage, reminding Hermione of the bliss her two best friends were having, sharing their love for each other with vows of love and faithfulness. A white dress…friends laughing….dancing….hugs and kisses…smiles… Had it only been a week ago? The days since had been crunched into the span of minute for her, recalling how she came to the conclusion to write about both sides of the war and Narcissa’s offer of adoption…and then finding herself here, and with him of all people, her hand in his, her body leaned up against his…

This felt so strangely perfect it put her head in a spin.

…………………………..

Sunday September 5th, 1999

She found herself with weight on her legs, pinning her in place and for a moment she panicked, believing herself caught under the terrifying witch that was digging a blade into her arm, ready to scream and fight for her life. 

Instead, it was the fuzzy multi-colored form of Hamlet, curled into a ball and snoring soundly, suddenly perking upright once she spasmed and bolted into a sitting position.  
“Sorry Hamlet.” She apologized, petting behind an ear and soothing his worried little face. That was twice now, the nightmares. And this marked her second evening having slept here with the knowledge that Draco Malfoy was under the same roof. It hurt to speculate but there was no other way to explain their return other than it having to do with his proximity. Thinking this made her sick with guilt, as it was not his fault. And was her presence doing the same to him?

How were they ever going to heal if being around each other brought up such unpleasant things?

After pulling her legs out from under the butt of fluff, she stretched and figured she’d start her morning routine, plucking her knapsack up off the floor and trudging to the bathroom, only to find it occupied with a locked door.

“If you’re looking to change, you can use my room.” Draco’s voice carried over her shoulder, leaning in his doorframe, dressed in a simple white tee shirt and boxer shorts-which she adverted her gaze from. “I insist really, there’s far more space. If you need…I have room in my closet…to hang up…stuff.”

She gave a tiny smile at the offer. “That doesn’t mean you can go shoving me inside it whenever it suits you.”

He clutched dramatically at his chest. “Not gonna let that one go so easily, are you?”

She smirked as she passed by him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and nearly smacking him in the face with the curled ends. “Not a chance. You owe me for that one. Something big, like driving me into town and being my personal shopping lackey big.”

“It’s a date then.” He grinned devilishly, grabbing the knob and pulling the door shut before she could vehemently clarify it was in fact not, but decided to save face and her energy for another conflict.

Pick your battles, Hermione. For goodness sake you know he’ll say anything to get a rise out of you. Did six years of schooling beside him teach you nothing about the git?

She pulled her suitcase out of the beaded bag, enlarging it to its proper size and unzipping it to reveal the weather appropriate climate for time of year. A plethora of tank tops, shorts, Capri pants, full length skirts, spaghetti strap dresses, and her one relic of the 1980’s denim jacket. She left the navy colored cloak tucked away in the suitcase as 1) she would not need it, and 2) she had no idea as how to bring up her association with his mother to him just yet.

Oh sure, she could just go straight for the jugular and say “Oh, you know it’s so funny that you ended up with my parents this past year? Well after graduation I left The Burrow after my fight with Ron and ended up at your mum’s doorstep, firstly with the intention to just make use of your library and funds but now she loves me so much she wants to adopt and sign over the estate for me to inherit. I mean, it’s not like you’re coming back for it anyways so it might as well get put to good use…”

And sound like an outright bitch.

She shook her head, dropping a pair of sandals on the floor and realizing she was wasting time lost in thought. Which she found herself doing far too much of as of late. There was always something to ruminate on, whether good or bad. Sometimes it felt like the bad outweighed the good tenfold but it made the good worth it all the more. She stripped out of the sleeping clothes and decided that Draco’s offer to use some of his closet space was kind, and would make retrieving her clothing better…although, where did that leave her for her knickers and such?

It didn’t take long to shimmy into a pair of shorts and a regular tee shirt, rub on some deodorant, and pile her hair up into a bun. She knew she was going to be in for some massive frizz with their impending summer and stocked herself up on plenty of tried and trusted brands from home. She hung up her simple wardrobe, taking the space in his closet between his pants on the left and button up shirts and jackets on the right, dead center. She didn’t have much but it would do for now. If she needed anything extra she had the money for it. After she unpacked her toiletries and started glancing about the room to place them, she suddenly stopped herself and quickly sat down on the bed.  
Wait a damn minute; I can’t go treating his room like my own! Closet space is one thing, but everything else? No no no, far too much overstepping…

She swept her arm across the bed, scooping up bottles of shampoo and conditioner, moisturizer and hair ties, three different hairbrushes, body spray, deodorant, and of course, feminine products as she would not be brewing up any potions for that while staying here. She didn’t extend her arm far enough, causing one bottle to bounce off her fingers and tumble to the floor. Huffing a sigh, she slunk to her knees and reached for it when something cute and white caught her eye in the cubby hole of his nightstand.  
Stretching her hand out, she plucked up the plush white toy with the familiar red heart shaped tag on its left wing. 

A smile pulled at her lips. It was a dragon. A white dragon.

Flicking the tag flap open, she saw the name: 

Magic TM Style 4088   
Date of Birth: 9-5-95  
“Magic the dragon lives in a dream  
The most beautiful that you have ever seen  
Through magic lands she likes to fly  
Look up and watch her, way up high!”

It took all she had to not break into laughter, the very idea of Draco Malfoy owning a Beanie Baby, but this one in particular. She set it back in the cubby hole, like it was her designated cave as nothing else was in it and retrieved her shampoo bottle, just as there was an insistent knock upon the door.

“I do hope you’re decent!” he hollered, “You’ve been in there long enough.”

“I’m dressed.” She replied, coming up off the floor as he entered his room.

“What’re you doing on the floor?”

Her hand revealed the bottle, a little shake to indicate it had run astray. His eyes roved over his bed, his brows twisting anxiously at the sight of so many products spread about. “Planning on becoming my roommate?” he teased, flicking his hair out of his face. “Not that I object, though we’re going to have to establish some ground rules-”

“I’m not moving in.” she growled. “I’m perfectly fine sleeping on the couch. But I do appreciate the closet space.”

He smirked, knowing it must nibble at her craw to actually have a reason to be thankful for his generosity. It took a lot of restraint to not gloat. Gloating would automatically send her packing, quite literally. “Gonna hang your knickers up as well?” he teased, watching her back go ramrod straight before slamming the top of her suitcase shut.

He laughed at her reaction.

“Kidding. Kidding.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I have a drawer you can borrow so you don’t have to continue living out of a suitcase.” He motioned over to his dresser and pulled one of the two half sized drawers open. “Already cleared it out the night before.”

That admission promptly stumped her. 

“Speechless again? Why I do believe this must be some kind of record.”

“Oh shut it.” She snapped. “How do I know you won’t paw through them?”

He burst into a snorting laugh, wiping at his eye at sheer absurdity of her claim. “Just how many perverts do you associate with? Paw through your knickers like some sexual deviant? Gods Granger, you crack me up.” He took a moment with a hand pressed to his side to catch his breath. “Lucky for you I’m not so easily insulted but if I really wanted to get a glimpse of them I’d find a way. And no, letting you occupy a drawer is not the route I would take-for one, it’s too obvious, and second, I’m trying to prove myself capable of being a gentleman, especially if we’re going to be friends. Does that sound legitimate enough?”

She worried her lip for a moment in consideration to his words. If there was one thing about Slytherin students she knew that they didn’t do the obvious thing in order to get what they desired. They planned for contingencies and manipulated the situation to give them the results they wanted. If he really wanted to see her knickers, he would inevitably find a way and make it look like it was of her own doing. And while he was known for his elaborate boasts in school she never outright called him a liar. Lying was beneath him, though admissions of truth and cleverly twisted words with the right tone could make one think otherwise.

“Fine then, turn your back so I can put them away.”

He dipped his chin down at her, blinking several times at her audacity.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Please.” She huffed. “Please turn your back, like a gentleman would.” She added with just a touch of snark.

“As you wish.” He grinned, baring his back to her before she could throw a rebuttal. Instead she flung the suitcase lid back up and grabbed the armload of embarrassingly nice and pretty lingerie that Narcissa purchased for her when she took her out for a day of shopping in Diagon Alley. Once the woman knew her measurements it was all over. Quickly, she jammed them into the drawer, worried she might have too much, but she’d find time later to organize it.

Once the dresser drawer was shut he spun around to see her hastily close her suitcase and huff. He was certain the witch had no idea how adorable she looked when she did that. The way her cheeks puffed up and her lips tightened as she expelled a breath in frustration-all because of him. It was a not-so-secret delight of his. As they weren’t children anymore there was a whole new playing field of ways he could rile her up and get under her skin, and he was most certain he’d managed that during their conversation before dinner.

In his defense, she had started it, bringing her hand up to cover his own in comfort. The gesture had taken him back for a brief second as he hadn’t expected her to become so comfortable with her freely given touches that he’d seen so often between her and those lucky bastard Gryffindors. And when her hand stayed far longer than he figured it would’ve then he considered himself an honorary member of the club and kept her hand hostage when she tried retracting it. He was well aware of Monica’s observing eyes and barely contained mirthful smile as they continued their discussion on the debacle that was muggleborns and their place in wizarding society.

He’d left her one final parting touch, just to see what reaction he’d get by trailing his finger alongside her neck as he pulled away from the couch, knowing he better go do something productive with his hands or else he’d really get himself in trouble. He knew she felt it with how her laughter stopped suddenly and her hand flew to cover the spot he just ignited.

Oh Granger dear, you have no idea how you’ve done the very same to me…and all while not even being in my presence. Bewitching barely comes close to describing it…

“Well, if you’re done making yourself at home, it is my turn to change, though you’re welcome to stay.”

Her cheeks flamed pink so magnificently it was a wonder she didn’t wear any makeup in attempt to conceal it. She exhaled and scoffed, grabbing her things and shoving them into the travel bag all while keeping her eyes firmly adverted from him. He wondered just how far he could push it…

In a split second, his shirt was up and over, the movement catching her eye and bringing her attention back onto him-even though her mouth was parted in horror and shock as her eyes widened with the same result.

“Draco!” she admonished, quickly spinning away from him. “I wasn’t finished!”

He snickered as he stepped over towards the dresser-and her-and pulled out the drawer of graphic tee shirts and tank tops, selecting one of the latter. “Well I told you princess, I need to get dressed for work. Domesticated sheep don’t take care of themselves you know. Well, they do…but you know what I mean.”

She spun back on him with her usual Granger fury. “You could wait until I leave the room. As is Gentlemanly.” She growled. She tried very much to not let her curiosity get the better of her, but as she met his intense gaze she withered and let them trail down. 

It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s bare chest before. She had. She’d tended to Ron when he splinched himself in a rushed apparation and Harry had to rip the rest of the shirt away so they could see the extent of his damage. He’d been a literal bloody mess so it wasn’t anything other than an emergency, unlike now, when there was a bare chest and absolutely nothing but a breaths’ distance between them as she finally got the full scope of his scars.

“I’m often shirtless ‘round here. You might as well get used to it.” He added in softly, seeing her nervous glance at them. “And you know how I got these…” he pointed to the largest one, prominently running diagonally across his pectorals. “But I imagine…they might be a little off-putting…”

“It isn’t that.” She quickly responded, wetting her lips and trying to not ogle. “It’s just…just…”

If only I had intervened…you wouldn’t have them…

“It’s not your fault you know.” He said as if he’d heard her thought. “The way Potter and I were that year, it was bound to happen. Not like I didn’t deserve it for what came to follow.”

Her eyes scanned over his toned torso, very much aware that he was no longer that skinny boy in school and every bit a hard-working man….God, the fact that Draco was now a blue-collar bloke getting his hands dirty…calloused…breaking a sweat in the fields….

“W-what…did you tell them….when they saw these?” she asked, clearly not the question she wanted to ask but was very tempted to…he was so close after all…

“Knife fight in the lavatory.” He answered, still watching her face as she took in the sight of his damaged chest, the scars now white lines cutting against his tanned skin. “Not too off the mark. I had enough cover stories to remember.”

“I’m sorry…you …had so many burdens…”

He chuckled, interrupting her barely strung together sentence. “Oh Granger, you really are such a bleeding heart.” He flung out the shirt, undoing its neatly folded state and breaking the spell of her enraptured eyes. “These scars have healed, they don’t bother me like they used to.”

He slipped the tank top over his head; succeeding in covering the majority, save for the slash that crawled up his shoulder. He turned to his closet and selected a pair of jeans, immediately sticking one foot through and bending his knee to slink the other one in, giving her a fairly good view of his boxer-covered bum before shimmying the denims up his legs and securing the zipper. He had no qualms about dressing in front of others, having shared a dorm for mostly six years with other boys his age. Not to mention the after-game undressing and showering with towel slapping antics and cold water spells tossed in each other’s direction.

“Normally I’d wait, but as breakfast has already been started and I need to see to the Ovis Aries members of the family, you’ll have to pardon the intrusion. Otherwise, we’ll hang a tie or something on the door when we require privacy.”

She sputtered at the mention of a tie on the door. “Draco, that’s not exactly what a tie on the outside of a door means….” She said, feeling hot under the proverbial collar.

His brows furrowed in uncertainty. “I’m pretty sure that was the intent from what I’d seen on the telly.”

She sighed. Not that she could blame him really, it was a major source of information unlike anything the wizarding world had to offer with visual stimulation as well as auditory, serving entertainment and education in one go.

“Draco….that….That means you want privacy…to ah…well….be with someone…”

He’d finished snapping the button and searched her expressive face for her tells. Her face was an open book most of the time, never thinking of the need to protect her emotions as she was hardly in a position where they could be used against her. Unlike him where an ill-timed smile, nod, or even just meeting someone’s eye could spell doom. Much like that one particular day when he couldn’t let on just how her screams had affected him.

“It means that you’ve got…you know…company…” her hands gestured in a coming together like motion as her redden cheeks implied she simply couldn’t say that the people were engaged in sexual exploits. At least not to him, smirking away impishly at her.

From her embarrassed suggestive roundabout he was beginning to catch on as he recalled from where he’d seen the scene. It made sense now. Then he broke into a grin and ran his fingers through his hair a few times. “Okay then, no necktie. We’ll just put up a little sign or something. No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

“Can we please stop talking about my knickers?” she shouted, rather loudly. Mortified a second later she clapped her own hand over her mouth. God, how was it merely just a few minutes in his presence and she had made a fool of herself? 

Smirking to himself at a job well done, he slipped from the bedroom and promptly took his place at the table and started on his breakfast, leaving her to stew in frazzled frustration at his teasing. He was already halfway through his plate before she had gathered her wits and courage to emerge and join him. It would seem that Monica would see to serving his breakfast before hers and Wendell’s as she was continuing to stand at the stove and pour out batter for flapjacks even after she’d taken her seat-across from Draco-and speared a few with her fork. He ate with his usual refinement, although at a quicker pace, and for once, used his mouth only for the intake of food and not to annoy her before sweeping a leg up and over the seat as he deposited his plate into the sink and pecked a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek.

“Thanks Moni.” He said all too casually, like he’d done it a thousand times before, and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “Toto looks ready to shear again, do you want me want me to give the little twerp a bath today?”

Hermione’s jaw popped opened.

“Can you handle him on your own?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the pan and flipping the pancake at the precise time.

Draco laughed. “Oh he’ll regret kicking me. Those hind legs will be the first thing tied up.”

She jumped when he turned around and met her obviously eavesdropping eyes, flashing her a flirty little smile and waggle of his eyebrows-god he did that all too well-as he passed by and exited the house without a parting word. Still wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing, Monica came up with her plate and beamed a smile. “Before Dell pops out of the loo I just want to say that that boy has eyes for you.”

Hermione nearly choked on her glass of water, sputtering so hard it shot up her nose and down her throat at the same time, bringing tears to her eyes as she coughed and patted her chest for a moment. In the past two years she’d been separated from them, no one at Hogwarts could shock her the way her mother could, and the years hadn’t dampened their affect.

“Christ, are you trying to baptize her with breakfast?” Wendell joked upon entry to the dining section of the kitchen. It was pretty much a two-in-one room, or a stretched out kitchen with space enough for a table. 

Hermione straightened up and regained her bearings. “Oh just me being an overachiever, trying to drink and breathe at the same time.” She quipped. 

“Uh huh.” He grunted with a flick of his tongue against a tooth, unconvinced. He shot a glance at his wife that spoke volumes of a conversation they had behind doors. “Mione….” He warned.

“What? She ought to know-”

“That is most certainly not our place to say.” His tone was severe and laden with disapproval for her butting that nose of hers into other’s business. It wasn’t often she got to hear that dry, husky voice being used in such a way, it sounded almost alien to her ears. But once it was brought out that was an indicator of either an apology or abrupt change of subject.

“Please, let’s not get heated over something that might not even be my business.” She said diplomatically, earning an endearing smile from her father. “I’ve given a lot of thought about how to help jog your memory and I want to try as many non-magical avenues as possible, saving it for a last resort.”

“By all means, let’s have it.” Wendell said.

……………………….

After pulling out her laptop, plugging it in-because she forgot it needed to charge-and bring up a brand new tab, she jotted down the first free-memory incident and indicated it with a marker to tabulate it was her mothers’. She had no way to be certain which of her parents would recall more memories or if they would both remember the same one or have their own, so it was much like a tally list for her to keep track of.

She wasn’t surprised really that her mother had the first memory breakthrough, she was always the more emotional of the two and gave into flights of fancy on occasion-like she was trying to do at breakfast before being grounded-and was truly a person led by her heart. Then again that memory had strictly been between the two of them-for obvious reasons-and thus solidified the need to keep a separate list. One might be able to help the other remember something.

She started with the boxes Draco extracted from the attic, pulling out the photo album as their mouths opened in rebuttal that they recalled nothing from the first time-and all those following-that they’d looked through it.

“Well, that may be in due to the fact it was Draco who triggered the enchantment, being the only one who clearly remembered me.” she stated matter-of-factly, recalling how he admitted to having been thinking of her while being up there. A little thought she’d pin for later. “All you could tell was that you recognized yourselves in the pictures and thus started accepting the fact that he might be onto something when he told you about me. I imagine that this would’ve been a whole different process otherwise.”

Never in her life would she have ever anticipated having an outside source other than herself having to face these two people head-on, and for all she knew they could’ve slammed the door in her face the moment she said she was a distant relative or the daughter of a friend of theirs. Draco’s accidental unveiling of her existence might make all the difference. And how would she go about explaining that when pressed for answers by everyone as to how she did it? Reveal the former Death Eater had fallen on such hard times that he was taken in by a pair of good Samaritans that just so happened to be the parents of the girl he bullied all through school?

No one would believe that.

And then that might open the floodgate of those who still had a bone to pick with the Malfoy name, inadvertently leading an army of wronged witches and wizards who’d risk the likes of Azkaban just to be the one to strike him down…

No, she couldn’t mention him in her book…

But he might have contributed invaluably with this case, and the information as to how this matter was reversed was also just as valuable to have known. 

It was a terrible conundrum.

And a problem she’d mull over later, as for now, there were pictures to flip through and memories to discuss and a life to bring back into the present.

……………………………

That afternoon when Draco came limping into the house with a bruised shin and the urge to strangle a sheep with his bare hands, he stumbled upon a serene scene of the Wilkins and Hermione engaged in laughter, photo albums in laps, loose pictures in hand, gesturing wildly amidst the throes of telling a humorous anecdote about a mishap during one of her adventures when Hermione glanced towards him and her throat constricted at the sight of his disheveled hair, sweat glistened chest-those abs-and his limping gait. 

Her sudden swallowed voice made both adults turn around and take in his hunched over form. Wendell on his feet in an instant, coming to the younger man’s side and taking his arm, leading him to a chair. “I should’ve been out there…” he chided himself as Monica ran up to the kitchen to pull an ice pack from the freezer and Draco flinched at the sight of it.

“No please, don’t.” he begged, holding his hands out. “It hurts enough.”

“How bad did he get you?” she asked, holding the freezing cold gel-pack.

“Hard enough for him to count his blessings that his little black arse is worth more alive than dead.” He hissed as Wendell pulled the lever on his recliner to make him lean back.  
“We’re gonna need to see it.”

Draco shook his head. Hermione felt she might be the reason for his reluctance, but knew that sheep could deliver strong powerful kicks able to break bone as they traversed cliffs and fought off predators like large cats and wolves in other countries, here they had to contend with dingoes. She retrieved her wand just as Monica pointed out the blood staining his denims.

Pushing past them she met his face dead-on. “Draco, you more than likely have a compound fracture, you need to let me treat you. In order to do so, you’ll need to remove your pants. Can you manage that?”

Fighting the pain ricocheting through his shin, all he could muster was a nod. That was how she knew the seriousness of the situation, no witty remarks or snarky comebacks. He undid the button but with the dark red stain blossoming across the bottom of his pants he had no energy to do much else.

“Lift your bum.” Wendell ordered, grabbing one side of his hip’s hemline and Monica the other. “On three.” He ordered, and the husband and wife team counted down and shimmied the pants down as he braced his arms stiffly to lift himself. Once he was back to being seated he winced and let out a hiss.

“Fucking little bastard.”

Hermione flicked her wand and in an instant, his pants had vanished off his body-and straight over to the washing machine-revealing the bloody gash from the cloven hoof. Already his leg was swelling, distorted in a rainbow of bruises, and bleeding rich dark blood. “Hold still.” She commanded, tracing her wand over the length of the cut, first casting Episkey to heal the broken bone, a scourgify to clean it and then Ferula to bind it expertly. The only thing she couldn’t do was alleviate the pain.

Both retired dentists stood in fascinated awe at her use of magic, watching the rapid process of healing to what would’ve normally required a drive to the hospital, a brace or cast, and weeks of recovery. Without a second thought she levitated the throw blanket to cover his nearly naked body that he accepted wholeheartedly.

“Well, I guess this means we’re even now, yeah?” he weakly joked, shivering from a phantom pain. It was a side-effect of the rapid healing, the body and brain temporarily disconnected in their receivers of pain it knew was happening and pain that was a by-product of knowledge of the situation. Magic wasn’t completely infallible.

“Would you rather go to the hospital?” she countered, keeping her eyes focused on his. “I could always entice a certain little sheep to kick you again.”

Even joking, his eyes still widened before pulling the blanket around himself for more comfort. “Come now, you can’t hate me that much.”

Smirking, she set her wand down on the side table, turning to face her parents. “Sorry about that. I know too much exposure to magic is a lot to take in. I don’t want to make you feel uneasy about it.”

“Are you kidding?” Wendell exploded in excitable disbelief of her apology. “That was bloody brilliant! I mean….all that…in just a matter of seconds! And you did it so fluidly, such precision! It was masterful!”

“Easy there tiger, don’t let it go to her head.” Draco groused, shuffling to ease himself into a more comfortable position. “But honestly, that little fluffy bastard is lucky he’s still walking.”

Hermione couldn’t help but beam with pride. She’d never been able to perform any magic out of school over the summers she spent at home due to the trace on her wand, and then by the time she was of age….well… So finally having demonstrated something for them to visibly see, tangibly touch-as they both were curiously gently pawing at Draco’s leg-was incredibly satisfying in so many ways. She had to take a moment and wipe away a tear by pretending to fuss with her hair. Monica still placed the cold pack on his leg, making him whimper like a little child, but Hermione couldn’t take pleasure in his discomfort. He was lucky the adrenaline coursing through him enabled him to make it to the house and to receive treatment so soon or else the bone might not properly heal or an infection could’ve set in.

“Well, Toto might be worth a pretty pound but he’s making it damn hard to not contemplate having chops for dinner tonight.” Wendell growled.

“I second that.” Draco mewled as Monica propped up his leg on a pillow. “Well, sorry I ruined a little moment there.” He weakly waved a hand, indicating the dining table where the photo albums were sprawled all over.

“Oh it’s fine.” Hermione replied. “I was just telling them about the time the boys tried baking a birthday cake with Hagrid and nearly burned down his hut. I mean, he had a pet dragon there and it did less damage…” she ended with a mirthful laugh.

Draco cocked his head to the side, recalling ratting them out for smuggling the little thing through the castle, earning himself detention along with them back in first year. McGonagall made sure to bust him in the name of fairness, cheeky hag.

“Your birthday?” he asked. She nodded. “Isn’t that coming up soon?”

Her mouth popped open. “How…?”

Monica whipped her head out of the bathroom, having gone to retrieve the bottle of hydrogen peroxide to wash the blood out of his pants. “What?”

Wendell froze as if he’d been struck by lightning. “The nineteenth!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. There had been something about that day he couldn’t quite put his finger on, just knowing it was important somehow.

“Oh my god….it’s working….” Hermione whispered, fanning the tears that pooled in her eyes. 

That was the beginning of the week of exposure, but not every photograph and childhood memory yielded such strong results. There were more like little jingles of a bell, like the vague recollection of song lyrics but still not able to string them all together cohesively. Not that they weren’t willing to try, but there were only so many things she had at her disposal that she could present them. A walk through downtown London would surely jog their memory far better than just describing it but she wasn’t going to drag the pair to the Ministry and Floo them to England with the risk of traumatizing them.

But she had another tool in her arsenal, something she had been hesitant to mention at first because of how Draco might react, but seeing as she’d already gone through her personal belongings-even her diaries-and had only brought up just a handful of memories she had no other option.

After that whole incident with his leg she’d been wary of being alone with him. Her eyes kept betraying her, roving over his torso when she was certain his attention was elsewhere, especially when he was napping. At some point the gel pack had acclimated to room temperature and needed removing. They’d given him some extra strength Tylenol and a cup of tea and before they knew it he’d dozed off. Wendell had gone to deal with the ornery little bugger that was their temperamental black sheep and Monica was busying herself with trying to remove the blood stains from his jeans, leaving her in the living room with her patient.

The wound on his leg was her first concern, the swelling had eased and the bruises had faded to a degree but weren’t completely gone. There would be a nice new scar to add to his collection, as she noticed quite a few along his legs and hands. The draw to his hands soon had her eyes taking in the scope of him-not that he was shirtless-but how well defined he’d become. In all the times she’s been in his proximity, he’d usually been running his smart mouth, saying things to rile her up and bring her attention to his face even while shirtless. But now in his quiet repose she could see it for herself, and had to admit he was adequately fit.

He wasn’t kidding about the labor around here being physically demanding!

Her father was in relatively the same shape that she’d last remembered him, not letting his profession of being a dentist letting him grow too soft. The man jogged regularly, lifted weights-or the equivalent around the house-and ate healthy. He remained active and wanted his retirement to still keep him mobile to prevent the common causes of ill-health in those no longer steadily routine employment. His often laughed-at pipe dream of having a quiet little place in the country was meant to be further along in life; he hadn’t even gone grey yet. She wasn’t surprised he put Draco through the ringer on becoming a farmhand.

She found herself fixated on the twisting white lines across his chest, truly taking in the scope of them, committing them to memory. But he’d been wrong about them being off-putting, if anything they enhanced the natural beauty he had, like the imperfect veins of grey through white marble. His chest was unique now, no one else had those same scars and never would, as was the same case for his left arm, once branded in servitude it now served as a visual representation to overcome the darkness oppressing upon one’s soul.

At least that’s how she saw it.

She couldn’t say the same for him. With the fine lines that crisscrossed the skull’s face, she could deduce he’d tried a painful route in an attempt to erase it from his flesh. It felt like being back in the Hogwarts infirmary, sitting beside one of her idiotic friends as they lay in the standard hospital beds with injuries ranging Quidditch games, moronic professors’ spell mishaps and their interactions with Draco. And now she was here, by his side, watching as he slept. If she looked hard enough she could see the little eleven year old boy who stuck his nose in the air and jutted his chin in his self-imposed superiority. Arrogance had sharpened his features into unflattering angles, but now, everything about him had rounded out into alluring softness that begged to be touched.

Course that was silly. Why would she want to touch his face? Why would she want to run her hands across his chest, letting her fingertips graze across his scars? Why would she…want to…imagine his hands…those long graceful fingers…touching wherever they pleased…

A slight shift from him had her jumping back like she’d been electrocuted, grabbing onto the couch like a life raft. Monica had hung the pair of jeans over the back of one of the dining chairs and brought in two mugs of tea, handing one to her which she almost spilled on herself, the quivering mess that she was. After taking the spot beside her the woman leaned in ever so slightly with a conspiracy-knowing weight in her gaze.

“He is handsome isn’t he?” she softly stated, as if merely mentioning the weather forecast and following through with a sip of her chamomile.

Hermione wondered if a heartbeat could be heard without the use of a stethoscope, as hers was willing to volunteer in its feverish pace against her ribs. “Oh…I guess…he’s filled out some.” She lamely sputtered. “I never gave much inclination to that since he was usually insulting someone. Even when my housemates twittered on about his looks I didn’t engage in that subject.”

“I may be a happily married woman whose blood only heats for my husband but I have eyes Hermione Granger. And you can’t keep yours off him.”

Hermione straightened her spine. “I haven’t seen him in a whole year…I’m still getting used to the fact that he’s lived with you all this time.”

Monica pursed her lips and nodded to herself. She knew what she saw. She knew what she’d been told from her husband’s account of the way that boy lamented on about a girl he’d wronged. She knew from what Draco had told her himself. What she didn’t know was why the denial. Why the obvious disregard of the signs. But then again, the answer might lay within the hidden memories of her other life.

A life that she and her husband were now well aware of, catching brief glimpses with this familiar stranger.

Hermione was able to shift the conversation away from the admiration of Draco although not the subject of boys completely. It seemed Monica was being that ornery bulldog with a bone and wanted to know all about her life outside of the constant threat of danger. She skirted around the topic with vague descriptions she could’ve said about any amount of kids in any regular school, but eventually the dogged chase wore her down into giving up some bitter truths.

“….and after all the trouble I went through…he ended up with Lavender Brown. She grabbed him and kissed him in front of everyone in the common room and they all cheered. I felt so betrayed. I nearly screamed out what I’d done, but then that would’ve been worse off for all of us. I broke several rules with the use of the Confundus; interfering with a Quidditch try-out, sabotaging Cormac’s chance at the position, as well as betraying Ron’s trust that he couldn’t have done it on his own…” she confessed, ignorant of the pale eyebrow that raised up in surprise before falling back into place.

“…when I destroyed the Cup we had a moment…” she paused to savor the memory with a wistful smile. “It felt perfect, like everything we’d been through had been worth it. And at the end of the day we were still standing by each other’s side, hands clasped and I’d never felt so complete…But then…well, he’d lost a brother and there were so many funerals to attend that summer, and then when he heard I was going to testify on Draco’s behalf…that’s when the distance really started making itself known…He couldn’t let go of all the years of stupid adolescent rivalry and I just wanted a clean slate for us all.”

She could feel the tears threaten but they hung in place, that precarious edge of slipping back in or falling forward.

“…It was when he and Harry decided they weren’t going to come back to school with me to redo our seventh year that I knew there would always be some kind of wedge that we couldn’t overcome. I was always more academically inclined, and he would rather play Quidditch. I knew we had differences, but while on my own that last year I suddenly realized just how different. I had time to spare now that I wasn’t chasing them down to finish their assignments, check their homework, convince them that they were paranoid over unfettered theories, and no longer engaging in arguments over trivial matters. I threw myself into my research and my Head Girl duties but still, I had too much time to myself, time I wasn’t used to having…and my mind went down several rabbit holes.”

“And you never dated?” Monica inquired.

Hermione shook her head. “There wasn’t anyone left at Hogwarts I was remotely interested in, even though a few of those Slytherin boys did toss me a wink every now and then…”

Draco stirred, pulling the blanket further around himself.

“Should we wake him up soon?” she turned to her mother. “I heard Dad-er I mean Wendell-say something about him not handling the dark well?”

“Let him have a bit longer, he’ll be fine. He struggled to get a decent night’s rest for a while when he first was here. More often than not I’d wake up and find him sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea long gone cold, back pressed to the wall and Hamlet by his side like he was terrified something was going to jump out of the shadows at him.”

Hermione knew that scenario all too well, often finding herself woken up drenched in sweat and a scream in her throat-ever thankful for those strong silencing wards-and the need to just get up and move around. She’d amble into the kitchenette and tear through snacks or enchant her Walkman and drive herself into exhaustion with exercise, sometimes wrack her brain with setting up patrolling pairs and scheduling the next meet without it interfering with anyone else’s personal agendas. Lots of mornings Michael would find her sprawled out in their common room with dark rings under her eyes, wand in hand and a hex on her tongue the moment she was touched.

It made for a few awkward first weeks until he’d learned to gage her moods and anticipate her moves. Once or twice he pressed for her to talk with him, but she couldn’t muster that so-called famous Gryffindor bravery even to a level-headed Ravenclaw and have him know what her nightmares were made of. He’d never look at her the same and she just couldn’t handle that.

Having exposed more of herself than she expected she took up both of their mugs and wound her way around the recliner when she felt the tips of those long elegant fingers grace her thigh as she passed, her shorts having hitched themselves a little higher during the time she’d been seated, exposing more of her bookworm-pale skin and felt fire course through her at the seemingly innocent contact. The whole time his eyes remained lightly shut in the perfect emulation of sleep but she knew better, especially when on her return he craned his neck up and slowly opened them, meeting her gaze in a silent second before her mother began addressing him with inquires as to his well-being.

Since then, she’d cleverly avoided any opportunity that could lead to her being alone with him, going so far as to help her father with the sheep (with the help of magic) and bringing up one of their favorite topics to discuss: the scientific validity employed in Star Trek. Just what was the difference between light speed and warp speed, a stunning phaser blast against a killing one-and how much it was like a light saber burn-as she made quick work of shearing the other sheep with the use of an enhanced hair cutting spell and cleaning their wool diligently with a scourgify. 

“That bloody thing is fantastic. Maybe you could fix the plumbing while you’re at it.” He joked, stuffing wool into sacks that he’d later drive to the market for it to be processed and dyed. All he did was raise the sheep; he didn’t deal with the production process of their wool afterwards.

“So…you’re not afraid of me using this on you?” she asked, worried what his answer would be. He was renowned for his stern logic. 

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m bloody well worried I’m going to end up with only half my marbles. But if you wanted, well…you could just use that on us regardless, couldn’t ya?”

She kicked at some dirt with downcast eyes. “Yeah…I could pretty much make you do whatever I wanted…there are spells out there…one of them does exactly that: takes away your freewill. It’s listed as an Unforgivable. The problem is proving it’s been used, if I can simply tell you to forget doing something after ordering you as a way to cover my tracks….Dark wizards liked using it to assassinate their foes while providing themselves a perfect alibi.”

A shudder ran down his spine at the images that conjured. “Have you ever…?”

She winced at the implication of his faltered question. “I…I never used it…but…I did…take lives…” Her eyes took a hard left and stayed fixated on a tree in the distance. “It was a war. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how circumstances make soldiers of the unwilling.”

“No, you most certainly do not.” He agreed, his tone even and mellow, nonjudgmental like she’d memorized so well. “How bad is it?”

At this she craned her neck and dared just a glimpse in his direction. “The memories? The flashbacks? The phantom pains and the physical scars…I get by as well as I can, as long as I’m busy and focused with a goal.”

“And the downtime?”

She brought her arms up to hug herself. “Probably much like what you dealt with when Draco came to live with you. I still have nightmares. I get depressed. I had a summer filled with nothing but funerals and mourning, then went to finish my education in the very place where those lives were taken…Those who returned with me…we had to help each other…some drank, some hurt themselves…some started sleeping around…we were a mess but we were finally free to be teens. But I was the one most turned to for comfort. I had a reputation, an answer for everything…I was everyone’s rock…”

He threw the sacks of gathered wool into the back of the truck and leaned against the vehicle, arms crossed over himself in the exact same manner as her.

“What do you want to do with your life?” he asked her.

The question finally pulled those tears forward, with her hitching her breath as she wiped them away. “I don’t know.” She answered with a thick voice. “I’ve been everything for everyone else…But the only thing I want is for the truth to be known, so that’s why I’m documenting all of this…all the progress, the failures…the war tore families apart in more than just one way. Something I was constantly reminded of by those mourning their dead and telling me I should be happy you and Mum were alive.”

She turned to him with an angered growl. “Do you know how many times I had to hear that?! Buck up, they’re alive; don’t go crying when you can still see them? But you don’t know me! How is that better? How is it…looking at you, knowing who you are and the life we’ve shared and see your eyes…and how you try, you do…you’re trying but the light isn’t there…How is this better than death?”

The tears were falling now, freely, thickly, as she poured out her grief. And then she felt that familiar hand pat her shoulder and she turned into him, his hand encompassing her shoulder blade as she breathed in his familiar cologne and wept uninhibited against his shirt, him standing there impassively and allowing her breakdown.

“You’re allowed to take care of yourself. Whether that means with tears and screams, so be it. You don’t always have to be strong for others.”

A floodgate poured out of her then, a barrage of screams emitting from her throat with nothing but the permission to do so. Nothing but comforting arms and a heartbeat against her ear to soothe her as he simply stated that she owed nothing to anyone, she had nothing more to prove and that regardless of their memories, he and his wife would treasure her presence in their lives.

…………………………………


	19. Dancing With the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione needs a hug. Draco wants to test boundaries. But then the tables get switched around…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PSTD episode at the end of chapter*
> 
> Mood Music: Let It Be by The Beatles
> 
> Comedown by Bush
> 
> Official Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7lNEJHrV75TPJUi3ZSlaUd

When the tears finally dried and her throat was raw from the cries and her sleeve a snotty mess Wendell gently took her arm and escorted her back to the house, offering a hot cup of tea and the use of his recliner to relax in. She appreciated the gesture knowing that was like the Captain’s Chair, no one else sat in it but him or who he allowed.

But the good cry had drained her physically as well as emotionally, so she declined and softly tapped on Draco’s bedroom door, hearing his reply and quietly stepped inside. He was seated at his desk with a series of papers laid out before him, moving his hands in an manner that made it appear he was playing on piano keys with his eyes fixed on a sheet in front of him, tapping the desktop and counting the beats to a melody in an almost whisper.

She stood there a moment, watching the odd scene before her, taking just enough steps to conclude she was right, he was “playing” piano but with drawn keys on blank sheets of paper laid out to represent the full eighty-eight, taking up the entire width of the surface. As if he could feel her stare, he stopped.

“Yes Granger?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

“Oh…sorry…” she quietly said, turning away.

“Yes, I’m practicing piano. The only time I get my hands on one is at the bar and this damn song has been requested far too often for me to ignore it.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Which song?”

He threw his head back and sighed out a laugh. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” But when he turned around his smile instantly morphed into concern. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Damn puffy red eyes.

She just shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just going to lie down. I won’t bother your little recital.”

He felt the words like a slap. Silently he watched as she set her wand aside, slipped off her shoes and crawl over the bed, flopping onto the pillows and grabbing one to squeeze the dear life out of as she hunched up her knees and buried her face into it. She’d closed the door, barring Hamlet from entering as evident by the pacing outside the door and having his name called by her parents to leave them alone.

In all the time since she’d arrived, she’d either been bubbly or blubbering, but this was whole other beast of an emotion and it set his nerves on end. There’d be no way he could focus on “Let It Be” or “Hallelujah” knowing she was sinking into a dark hole. Although he’d never been one for comforting others he took mental notes of what he’d seen work time and time again with not just those in his House but now in all the sitcoms and romance based films he’d seen.

She needed a laugh. Or a hug….Or maybe to punch him again but he’d rather not offer that option.

“What’s the song?” she asked with a sniffle.

Her back was to him. With how hunched up she was she took up no more space than the dog.

“Let it be, by The Beatl-”

“-The Beatles.” She said at the same time. “It’s one of their most popular.”

Yeah, didn’t take a genius to figure that out with how many times he’d heard it and had it requested of him. It was just another on his list to learn. She cleared her throat and then began, softly:

“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be  
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be…” her voice started raw and cracked, but gained smoother traction by the time she reached the first chorus.

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be”

Still clutching the pillow, but no longer burying her face in it, she continued the well-known lyrical plea for peace. 

“And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree  
There will be an answer, let it be  
For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see  
There will be an answer, let it be”

He knew the main chorus and smoothly joined her.

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
There will be an answer, let it be  
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be  
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be, beeeee”

With her eyes shut she blocked out everything but the sound of his voice, never expecting such a light orotund sound with a gentle infliction from someone who used to spew the most vitriolic insults she’d ever heard. Just another faucet of the Malfoy mindset and its ability to present another persona. 

“And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me  
Shinin' until tomorrow, let it be  
I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be”

Again, he joined her on the chorus, somehow matching in perfect time when she softened her voice to nary a whisper as they reached the end. Silence fell over them in the afterglow, neither knowing what to say after uniting in melodious harmony. Truly, had they ever fallen into sync with each other so well before?

But Draco had never fared well with silence, that is, silence from others. He brooded, sulked, lamented, pined, and would sigh but when it came to others he couldn’t take them being so eerily quiet when their minds were screaming their thoughts. It had made his talent for Legilimency all the more potent when people were projecting their thoughts rather than speaking them, but when the mind was silent it was like walking through a graveyard.

The trouble was, he didn’t know what to say. He knew she’d been avoiding him throughout the whole week-mainly working on retrieving memories with her parents-and it had suited for the time being, he had chores, he had his job, and she had her self-imposed task. He hadn’t meant to overhear part of the conversation she had with Mrs. Wilkins but he couldn’t resist the asinine urge to place his hand just so that it met against her leg when she got up. He’d never really ever fully controlled that little habit of his. If he liked something he touched it.

And he definitely liked touching her.

“You…you sing well.” He dumbly complimented, mentally slapping himself for how the words sounded coming from him like he was Captain Li Shang from Mulan. Of all the things to say…

“As do you.” She replied, her voice soft and small, barely heard over the muffling pillow and that she was facing away from him.

“Thanks.” He responded weakly, not wanting to sound like a pompous ass for saying he’d had lessons since he could speak, dance lessons since he could walk, piano since he could hold his spoon, along with a litany of imposed mannerisms and etiquette so that by the time he arrived at Hogwarts he walked with authority and pride knowing he was better than the rest of the populous. 

“Do you…Do you want to talk?” he inquired, hesitant to ask for fear of her response. Honestly, he didn’t know what answer he wanted. He didn’t want silence but he didn’t want to hear something he might regret.

She only gave some sort of grunt of a reply which he couldn’t decipher in either direction. Course she would have to make it difficult on him. But, just because she wasn’t clear on whether she didn’t want to talk didn’t mean he couldn’t. Working with that little loophole, he slipped out of his desk chair and crouched to the floor by his bed, grabbing the little white dragon from his nightstand.

“Sounds like you need some Magic dragon kisses.” He stated quite matter-of-factly, watching her body stiffen right before her hair flung in his direction. He met her face head-on; pressing the little dragon right up to her lips and made the most ridiculous, exaggerated, sloppy kiss smooch he could, knowing he sounded like a nutter, just to see her face crack into a wide smile with a laugh. As she pushed the Beanie Baby away he swooped in with it and peppered her face with more plushie kisses, dotting her cheeks, her nose, and her neck before she fell back onto his pillows in defeat.

“Behold! It works!” he cried in triumph as she batted at him playfully, barely even trying to fight the reptilian offender. “And what’s funny is that the dragon is named Magic too.”

“You’re ridiculous Draco Malfoy!” she laughed, wiping tears from her eyes with one hand as her other had been caught in her attempt to remove the toy from his grasp. “Just what are you doing with a Beanie Baby anyways?”

“It’s what your mother lovingly referred to as a Gag Gift this past Christmas. Seeing as they practically adopted some poor sod with white hair named after the Dragon constellation I found the humor in it. Their real gift was the mug.”

“Oh yes, your precious mug I’m not allowed to drink from?” she teased, remembering perfectly how he reached over her head for it and made it seem he was retrieving it for her, only to pour and plop in his indulgence of sugar and meet her eyes in a dare.

“There are twenty six other mugs in this house.” He clarified sternly. “You can deal.”

“Humph.” She pouted indignantly. He traced the head of the dragon along her neck, watching with glee as she squirmed under its ticklish touch. He still had her wrist held against the bed, not that she seemed to notice. “Well, not like you were raised to share…” she jabbed.

“Dragons don’t share. They hoard. Beasts of greed and indulgence to feed their egos because they are the pinnacle of power.” He retorted, eyes getting intense. “They can destroy worlds on a whim, or fight the elements themselves and provide protection, as long as they are adequately worshipped.”

She flashed him a pearly grin. “Thank you for the lesson Mr. Scamander.”

“I’ll have you know I have a full set of first edition Dragonology books signed by him.” He stated proudly before realizing he’d never see those books, or his home, or his mother ever again. “Well….back in England I mean…”

Suddenly she felt guilty for the teasing remark. Here he was trying to lift her spirits and she’d managed to drag his down. “Thank you…for the dragon kisses…I think it worked.”

“Anytime princess.” He immediately followed, the endearment escaping his lips before he could even register it. No taking it back now. “Dragons are fiercely loyal too you know…the only person they’ll willingly obey is a beautiful maiden.”

“Is…is that so?” she inquired, her breath caught in her throat and her chest still.

She watched his Adam’s apple bob heavily as he swallowed. The situation she found herself in became glaringly apparent; he actually had her pinned to the bed even though she had one arm free. His torso was looming over hers, one knee in between her thighs-how had that even happened?-and the silly little plushie responsible was in his other hand, all too easily dropped if he decided to grab her other arm.

“Yes…” his voice washed over her in a fiery breath, igniting all the hairs on her arms and the nerves up her spine. “You only need to say the word…”

Her chest shuddered as she was forced to take in a breath, blinking rapidly as she was wracking her brain for what he could possibly mean by this exchange. Was her mother right after all? Did Draco Malfoy actually fancy her? If so….why?

Suddenly she felt very hot. Like someone had turned up the thermostat and his room was sweltering in heat. The air became heavy and fog-laden as she tried to formulate an appropriate response and coming up empty. How had she gone nearly twenty years of her life without an interaction like this before? It didn’t help how he had his head cocked to the side like some damn Labrador just waiting for her to command him.

Oh dear sweet Jesus…he really was, wasn’t he?

“I…I’ll ah, k-keep that in mind…” she managed to articulate, her tongue becoming a useless muscle in her mouth. How was it now that they were no longer in school he’d somehow gained the upper hand in all their banter and bickering, reducing her to a ninny with just a well-arched brow or innocuous touch? It was if she’d suddenly moved into his territory, where he knew all the rules and how to cheat and she was still reading the instructions.

Then he dipped his head in just a bit lower, making her freeze. “Hold still.”

As if she needed to be told.

He released her wrist, slowly bringing his hand up to her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye she watched his fingers entwine into her hair, the slight tug of release that made her realize some strands had gotten wrapped up in her bra strap-something that happened more frequently when she wore tank tops.

“Oh…thank you.” The surprise was evident in her voice. His fingers lingered in her hair a second longer than necessary.

“I can’t imagine the struggle these things provide you. First caught on a hanger, now onto your own clothing….Tell me, what’s it like having Devil’s Snare for hair?”

He played with a curl, teasing the length so that she could clearly see him paw at it. It wrapped so easily around his finger like ivy climbing a stone wall. The look in his gleaming grey eyes was one of nearly feline entertainment.

“I’ve been nearly strangled by Devil’s Snare thank you very much, and honestly…it was just a little easier to handle.” She sighed with the confession. At least with Devil’s Snare you could shoot it with light and make it shrink back.

He chuckled with satisfaction, still toying with the long tress. 

“So, do all dragons also pull on their princess’s hair?” she joked.

He hadn’t moved his position at all, still caging her in place. Frankly he was wondering if she was waiting him out, seeing how much of an arse he could make of himself before he either caved or she’d had enough. So far, it was a stalemate. And that intrigued him all the more.

“Only if she allows it. After all, she’s yet to command him otherwise…” he playfully waggled his eyebrows at her, thus throwing the quaffle in her direction.

She paid careful attention to the pronouns he used, understanding that he was going to stay in place until she told him to move. He wasn’t in a terribly uncomfortable position and she certainly wasn’t either so there was no sense of urgency, only the sense of how long they could carry on with…whatever this was before it became too painfully awkward.

“I thought you hated my hair.” She bluntly admitted.

“I thought I did too.” He wasn’t meeting her eye, only gazing intently at the strand he’d taken hostage. “I appear to have been mistaken.” His fingers twiddled the lock, undoing the natural curl only to watch it spring back in the opposite direction. “Now I just…want to play with it…”

She blinked several times. “Pardon?” How does one ‘play’ with hair? Especially hair attached to someone else’s head?

He had the decency to look chagrined and flushed. “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? You don’t have to pretend, you’ve never held back on telling me what you think before.”

Once the curl was released and fell back into the collective he started pulling back, sitting up on his haunches. “I’m sorry about that. Perhaps a little too much honesty can be just as bad a thing…”

Honesty? 

“I can see it all over your face; you’ve never let a bloke touch your hair before, have you?”

“Why would I?” she queried before she even pause to think why.

He shut his eyes with a single nod. “That answers that question.” He started shifting himself on his knees, recirculating the blood flow in his limbs before she pushed herself up and ordered him to stop.

“Wait. Please explain.” She wasn’t sure why or how, but the toy dragon was suddenly grasped within her left hand after he dropped it at some point.

He wheezed out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious? She-Who-Knows-Everything needs this explained to her?”

Her brows furrowed. “Don’t mock me. I asked you a perfectly natural question and I did so politely. You’re the one swearing to be a gentleman in all things, yet you laugh at this?”

Raking fingers through his hair he shook his head just enough to show his disbelief in the matter. “Granger-”

“Hermione!” she hissed at him, insisting they stick to first names.

His hands came up in mock surrender. “Hermione, darling, please don’t take this the wrong way but this is something that practically everyone knows. Well, anyone who’s ever dated that is…”

Her mouth popped open at the implication.

“We crave touch. Especially with our significant other. When you’re with someone, you find ways to touch. Some are just normal everyday touches with no meaning, others imply a flirtatious act, some of those go straight into foreplay and then there comfort touches… Playing with hair…well, it doesn’t have to mean anything other than liking how it feels. And then again it can mean so much more. But that’s usually already established between the two parties.”

Absorbing the information with his candid explanation, it suddenly made sense why she’d seen certain behaviors before and after the war between her classmates. “And when you do it…?”

Oh she couldn’t help herself, could she? Ever the curious little lion. And he couldn’t help himself; he was in the mood to play.  
………………………..

Wendell heaved a sigh and flopped onto his bed, his wife curious by his unusual display of exhaustion at such a time of day. She followed him in and sat beside him, running her fingers through his auburn hair. “Love what’s wrong?”

“That poor girl…” he sighed.

At that, Monica nibbled her lip and nodded to herself. Enough said.

“I can’t imagine the horrors and hardships she’s faced these past two years. And what’s worse is that rather than seeing to her own recovery she’s had to be the supportive rock for others to anchor onto, and then used all her spare time and resources to find us. Rather than take care of herself she worried more for two people who were complete strangers to her until a week ago, pushing herself to the breaking point in trying to find a way to make us remember her and all I can feel is this overwhelming need to just pick her up and kiss her forehead and tell her it’ll be alright.”

Monica continued pawing through his hair as he lamented.

“If she doesn’t stop she’s going to run herself into the ground. On the other hand, I want us to be the people she remembered and sacrificed for, it seems only fair. And if we can fully become Mr. & Mrs. Granger then we’ll be able to ease her burden and give her the help she needs….and thus lies the problem, this paradox of allowing this to continue at the rate she’s going knowing it’s causing her more stress at the same time being the solution to her problem.”

For a moment there was silence as she ruminated over her husband’s conundrum. All week they pushed themselves to remember names, places, events and ate all kinds of dishes and played movie after movie and flipped through photo albums and old letters, only catching little glimmers like distant fireflies in a summer field, yet not grasping any.  
“Maybe we should let her do the spell then.” She concluded.

He sighed. “You may be right. How many times must we watch Beauty and the Beast in hopes of triggering a new memory?” He held his hand out for her, entwining their fingers once they were together. “She needs us. Just like that boy did, and we happened to be in the right place and time to be there for him. If not for him, she may not even have come this far.”

“I think they were meant to help each other.” She said, convinced of it more than ever. It was then that she heard a soft melody emitting from their guest’s room, a familiar old song from their youth, acapella style. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, squeezing her husband’s hand to catch his attention. “D’ya hear that?”

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
There will be an answer, let it be  
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be  
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be, beeeee”

Their mahogany eyes met; caught in the moment of accidental eavesdropping, hearing the two broken souls sing a song about healing.

………………………………….

Draco crawled forward on his hands and knees until he was practically in Hermione’s lap, in between her jean clad thighs with his hands resting on either side of them, head tilted up at her with playful eyes. She hadn’t flinched or protested his advance which he took as a good sign.

“Have you ever touched a bloke’s hair before, Hermione?” he boldly asked, watching the gears in her head set in motion. “And I don’t mean in the cute nice way of helping them see. I mean fully hands-on, digging through long tresses, nails scraping the scalp, pulling while having a passionate snog?”

She shyly shook her head.

“You’ve been missing out on so much darling.” He chided, reaching for her hands. “So I’ll demonstrate. If that’s alright?”

She nodded and lifted her hands, leaving them to hover on either side of his head, unsure how to approach.

“Hermione, you touched my hair before, when I apologized. Were you even aware of what you were doing?”

“Not really…” she admitted.

“I’m not a dog, but just start with gently petting. Let your fingers explore.” He urged, dipping his head almost low enough to rest in her lap, taking a hand and placing it on his head. At first her hand was clumsy and heavy, too mechanical in movement. She was overthinking it. He propped himself up.

“Close your eyes.” He said. “You’re thinking rather than feeling, watching what you do rather than let it happen naturally. Just shut that sense down and let the other ones take center stage.”

He was surprised that she did without a single rebuttal. Not even a hesitation. 

“Now, I’m going to set a scene for you: Imagine you’re caught up in a star-crossed affair with a pureblood wizard whose family disapproves. He has come to tell you he has to end it. You know it, he knows it, and yet you want one last moment to touch him.” He nudged the crown of his head against her palm so she knew where he was. “How do you express yourself when you know words are useless?”

As if shutting her eyes had shut a switch in her brain, her body took on a different posture, slouching and curling around him, knees up just a bit, encompassing him like she could shelter him from the cruel world, fingers feather-light and gentle as they shifted through his blond tresses, the light contact speaking volumes of an intimacy she imagined between the characters he created. Her other hand was cradling his jaw, the backs of her fingers caressing the silky skin of his cheek, making his eyes flutter at the unexpected touch.

For a moment, he was lost in the fantasy, just imagining him having that conversation with Lucius. He would’ve been ordered to break it off with her, have no further contact, and found himself with a betrothal contract to a pureblood witch like one of the Greengrass sisters before the night was through. If he’d known he was going to have one last moment with this beautiful witch, he’d treasure even something as simple as her fingers through his hair.

He felt her lips grace the top of his head, her nose nuzzle against him, fully engaged in her role. There was no other reason for it. He’d told her to imagine how she’d comfort someone hadn’t he? His neck tingled with the sensation of wanting to feel her hands lower and embrace him fully, part of him hoping she would.

“Ok…” he croaked, coughing to clear his voice and regain a sense of control. “That was good…Nice and gentle. Comforting. Do you think you can imagine another scene?”

“Yes.” She answered, tilting her head to hear him as he shuffled upwards a bit.

“Now this time, I’m going to be touching your hair, are you alright with this?”

She agreed, sitting prim and proper, hands in her lap.

He couldn’t help but smile at how she looked like a doll, just sitting and waiting to be played with. “In this scene, you are with your boyfriend. You’re still getting used to each other, still learning your body’s language to the other. Whatever I say and do are the actions of the character, but if you feel uncomfortable in any way, just say Quaffle and I’ll stop.”

She snorted. “Really, a Quidditch ball? So predictable.”

“Now now darling, you know I’m quite fond of the sport. You should be more open-minded about it. How could you possibly sit and read through the entire game?” He booped the end of her nose, startling her so much that she nearly opened her eyes. “Not that you aren’t cute when you read.” He teased, watching her cheeks flush royally.

“Oh hold still, you have a leaf in your hair.” He said, reaching forward and taking a handful of curly strands, letting them roll through his fingers. She knew they were indoors and had been for some time, yet her head still turned in the direction where his hand was, almost as to expect him to extract one. “Has anyone said you have lovely hair? So lively and vibrant…”

There was a little sound whistling from her nose, trying not to squirm under the gaze she could clearly feel, trying to remain in character. A character that was not at all that different from herself. All the while she listened to him speak as if he were someone else entirely, touching her hair and even patted her head affectionately in his little game. Even though he said to imagine her “boyfriend” all she could picture was him, but how she had last seen him in school; ivory skinned and in his Slytherin uniform, snowy hair perfectly brushed and begging to be ruffled. She imagined a moment of them walking down the hall side-by-side, secretly brushing their hands against the other with a knowing look in their eye that only they knew.

It would’ve had to been secret. Covert at all times, except for where they could be alone and unseen. A place where Harry’s blessed map wouldn’t find them. And they’d treasure those moments together, whatever it is they were doing, no matter how brief. It would’ve been beautiful.

She’d gotten lost in the melody of his voice, the feel of his hands as demonstrated all kinds of flirtatious mannerisms, even the silly act of dragging a strand across her lips to form a mustache which had him laughing without restraint. His fingers would brush against her neck, her ear, and her jaw all while as this unnamed character who adored his girlfriend. He would’ve made a fine actor, she could almost convince herself that he meant everything he was saying and doing. But it was for the sake of the lesson, and he was just very thorough.

“….now you’ll at least have a sense of things before you start experimenting and learning what you like and don’t like.” He concluded, having gone on for who knew how long as her mind wandered.

Eyes still shut; she turned in the direction of his voice. “What wouldn’t I like?”

She heard him groan and could easily picture him throwing his head back. “Weren’t you listening? I said that more often than not the flirtatious leads into the foreplay and that’s where boundaries are tested. Not every girl likes her hair pulled.”

“Well, show me.” she prompted.

“You’re mad.”

“You must be confusing me with someone who wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor.” She boasted to his ire, challenging him to step up.

But he was hesitant; she could hear it in just the way he breathed.

“You haven’t made me uncomfortable yet.” She urged, finding this unorthodox method of experiencing new sensations quite intriguing. What she couldn’t see was only the textbook definition-which was fine and all-but it lacked in the physical application. Something you couldn’t get from a book. Her hand reached out and slid up his chest.  
“Hermione…” he warned.

“No Draco, you made it succinctly clear that I have lacked experience in this field. You made a point of telling me I overthink and just need to feel. Now, contrary to popular belief I am fully capable of taking this information in regardless of who my tutor is. So are you going to continue?” she challenged, all while her lids were shut, but the expression of ‘I dare you’ was still clearly expressed.

“I am going to make one thing very clear to you.” He stated firmly, his hand coming and lifting under her chin so that her face was angled towards his. “This is where you need to speak up. You have to tell me to stop or proceed further. What happens after this might make you uncomfortable being near me, but just remember: you asked for this. Now, what is your word?”

“Q-Quaffle.” She stammered, feeling hot under his touch.

“Good girl. Now, don’t be afraid.”

Before she could ponder what he meant by that, his hand had slid down from her chin and encompassed her throat. A tiny gasp whispered out as he tilted her neck aside and nuzzled against the exposed flesh. “I’ve got you now, little witch.” He whispered in a voice dripping with dark delights and unknown thrills. His hand slowly caressed across her throat and snuck to the nape of her neck, fingers lightly grazing the back of her scalp until the tips threaded through the fine under hairs and he began to tighten his grip.  
Her head tilted back as she reached out for him in support, finding his upper arms and grabbing tightly. Then she felt warm breathy air breeze across her throat.

“This is normally where your boyfriend would sink his teeth, right here.” He punctuated with the barest hint of a kiss to her pulse point. “A light one to start, increasing with pressure until you were writhing beneath him, clawing at his shoulders and hissing like a cat-enjoying every second of it.”

An audible breath escaped her.

With a light jerk, he pulled her hair and turned her head, then ran the tip of his nose along the shell of her ear. “And here…” his voice low and soft, but unimaginably deep with barely contained lust, “is where he would run his tongue, from the lobe up, or maybe starting from the top and working his way down….whichever one he knew you preferred…”  
His knuckles cracked with how tight he’d been clenching her hair so he loosened his hold, sliding his fingers up just a few centimeters along her scalp, watching her mouth part and her lashes flutter. “All the while, you’d be digging your nails into his skin, marking him with fine red lines, letting him know that in this moment, he belongs to you…”

Her thighs tightened around his knee as she twisted her grip into the sleeves of his shirt. He could feel her trembling but her face showed no sign of fear.

“And him…?” she asked, nearly breathless.

“Oh, he’d be marking you too sweetheart.” His voice purred, clutching more hair and sharply pulling her head back with just enough force that she emitted a tiny yelp. “Do you need to use your word?”

“No.” she whispered.

Ever so brave. He had to admit that.

“Tell me, have you only been kissed on your lips?” he inquired, eyes trained on them, watching them quiver and tuck in under her teeth in a nervous habit.

“Y-yes…”

He steeled himself from the urge to just sink his canines into her throat and claim her for his own. “Pity…” he murmured softly, trailing his fingers down the expanse of her throat, feeling it bob as she swallowed, watching the muscles work. “The entire body is a kissable work of art, did you know that? ... Every. Single. Part.”

A miniscule whimper escaped her despite her attempt to remain impassive.

His hand then traveled along her clavicle, finger hooking underneath the strap of both her tank top and bra as he continued sliding along her shoulder. “Right here for instance…is one of my favorites…”

“O-okay….”

Her mind was awhirl with his seductive monologue, wondering how it was possible that he could employ two different uses of his hands at once. One was rough, tightly gripping her hair and dominating how her head moved while the other softly caressed parts of her with care like she was porcelain. All while he made use of his mouth by painting a visual story in her head like she was a canvass.

“Do…do you want to?” she asked, causing him to freeze. His fist clenched her hair tighter than before, causing a slight wince from her.

For a second, he pondered the possibility. Oh how delicious she would be. Delectable and sensitive, his teeth sinking into her skin, his tongue laving a trail so he could lightly blow upon it just to watch her shiver….

But no.

This was not the time or place for that to happen. She may think herself capable of trusting him completely but he had a long ways to go before the truth of that could be validated. One look at his Dark Mark and she’d remember just who she was dealing with…

“Hermione,” he growled, voice tight as he fought off the temptation. He was already in a bad way, just how long had it been since he’d last been with a woman? “This is not about kissing; this lesson is just about focusing on pulling hair. And frankly I don’t think you could handle that.”

There was a huff of indignation and a protest on her lips before he pressed his hand over them and hushed her. “No arguing missy.” He ordered, tightening his grip on her hair and twisting it just enough so she got the point. “I can easily put an end to all of this…”

He lifted his hand so she could speak.

Her hands had come off his arms and held out in front of her. “Alright, I’ll be good.” She promised, unaware of the implications of that innocent statement and how it had him physically wincing in restraint.

Oh by Merlin’s Beard…this witch…

Feeling his sense of control slipping away he knew he needed to end this little “lesson” or take it further-either of which seemed appealing as he wanted to do both. God, how had it even come to this in the first place? Never in his life did he ever think he’d be the one to walk Hermione Granger through the different aspects of playing with hair…especially this far…

He pulled her down roughly, slamming her into the pillows, watching the way her body bounced in the recoil, how her mouth parted in the surprised gasp that turned into a laugh, how her curls splayed out like the roots of a tree, and the way her breasts swung upwards, then down and jiggled until they molded into place against her chest. Her arms had fanned out and fell back against the pillows in a completely relaxed position.

Why wasn’t she afraid? Shocked? Worried?

He’d known plenty of witches who liked to talk a big game about being handled as such, and while some could, there were others who faltered when it came time to the actual thing. But not this little lioness and her unnerving sense of self-assured trust in others.

He released her hair but kept his hand under her head, massaging the scalp and watching as she craned her neck and made little pleasured sounds.

“Your head might feel tender for a bit.” he warned, taking in the sight of her completely relaxed and satiated underneath him. He would be savoring this vision tonight for certain.

“It sometimes is when I have it in a ponytail, so that’s nothing new.” came her reassured reply. “Are we done?” for some reason he swore he could detect a pout in there.

“I…I think it would be best to stop here…I thought you might be uncomfortable even with this, let alone how I usually go about it but you continue to surprise me.”

He started to pull his hand back when she brought her own up and held him in place. “Wait…how do you usually go about it?”

Ah shit. I shouldn’t have said that.

“Uh no, we’re not going there-”

“Why not?”

“Because I already tested several boundaries of trust and personal space and I’d rather not end up with a black eye because I made you uncomfortable.”  
He saw her lids flicker, beginning to open and immediately brought his other hand to cover them. “No. Please…don’t do that.”

Concern furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. “Draco…”

His eyes shut, trying to ignore the shiver brought upon his spine by just the way his named rolled off her tongue.

“It’s my condition.” He stated firmly, glancing at his left arm. “Just use that imagination I know you possess and ignore the fact that it’s ME right here.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She professed, bringing her other hand up and trying to pry his hand away from her eyes.

You may not be….But I am….

I almost wish you were…

Because you ought to be…

“I know, Gryffindor through and through but that doesn’t mean you get to walk through fire just to show that you can.” He growled at her, trying to summon forth some of that familiar venom his fangs once held. “I told you, it was just a sensory lesson, you don’t get everything your way.”

Her nostrils flared. “Quaffle.” She firmly spat, her lips setting in a firm line.

“Fine then.” He seethed, pushing himself away from her as roughly and quickly as possible so he could use that precious second to turn his face away. He already had his back turned by the time she opened her eyes and was shuffling his way to the edge of the bed and making his way to his closet. Hermione didn’t understand what just happened, she thought that things were going so well, but as he quickly flung on a flannel button up and subconsciously placed his hand above his Dark Mark, she began to realize why he’d insisted her eyes stay shut.

“Take your nap, read, whatever….Just….leave me alone.” He ordered in a low voice, stomping through the room and shutting the door behind him in his departure.

It would be hours until he returned, sternly quiet and disheveled, smelling like a brewery, marching straight for a shower before dinner, remaining silent or monosyllabic when discussion came his way, and retreating to his room shortly after.  
……………………………..

Hermione knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, not after THAT. She was far too awake even though she was still drained, so the only thing left to do was to document her progress with her parents. Although Wendell had not recalled anything during their talk as he collected the wool, he was sympathetic and that had to account for something. All the little things that he’d managed to uncover about himself was enough to for him to tap into that paternal instinct to comfort and care. 

He served his time in the military, as a medic. He’d seen terrible wounds from all the horrendously creative ways humans devised in order to kill each other. He’d heard the stories, from the shell-shocked to the erratic, from the angry to the sorrowful. Many of them did not want blood on their hands-literal or figurative-and were horrified with their own actions. As a child she remembered him explaining things in a clearly detached way when it came to war movies, studies about WWII and Hitler’s regime-which she saw many parallels with Voldemort’s-and the way he’d have intimate knowledge of wounds from guns and knives when they watched a program about criminal investigation.  
She could speculate that he’d put more together than what Draco gave him-the man had seen torso torn apart by shrapnel for crying out loud-and in no way did Draco’s signature scars look like the typical knife fight wound. For one, there were no stitch marks and anyone with a modicum of medical knowledge would see that immediately. Secondly, they were not straight smooth lines; instead they were wild and jagged like painted lightning bolts. Draco, with what limited knowledge he had was somehow expected to convince those around him that he was just an Average Joe who had been in desperate need of a guardian angel. 

So desperate that he instead was blessed with two.

Looks like I owe Professor Trelawney an apology for dismissing Divination as codswallop for surely there are forces outside my understanding responsible for this turn of events. This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day. Heck, this is the kind of thing you’d find only in works of fiction! 

But it was happening. She was in the middle of it. The poets must’ve gotten their inspiration somehow…

She glanced at the date in the corner of her laptop screen. 09/11/99 Saturday. Which meant Draco would be at the Drunk Dingo, guitar in hand, tips filling a jar that he’d split with his two partners and tuck away for safekeeping. With a wistful sigh, she worried that she may not fully restore her parents by her birthday as she’d hoped.

Blinking away the depressing thought, she pulled out Lucius’ old diary and began charting more entries, his story taking place in the few years before her birth and all through her first year, making her two when Voldemort met his end at Harry’s home in Godric’s Hollow. In the time of this first Wizarding War there were names she was unfamiliar with-some had died after all-and those she was vaguely aware of, and then those she’d come to know far more than a girl her age ever should have.

Subconsciously, her hand traced over her Dolohov scar, a reminder of how little her life mattered to these kind of people due to a misconceived prejudice.

She had meant as little as a Negro slave mattered in the Southern half of North America in its colonial period. 

Simply because she was different and therefore perceived as something impure and barely human.

And as terrible as it was, racism still existed, just as the blood prejudice.  
……………………………

He had to get away. Get away from Her. The way she felt. Her scent. The softness of her hair he never anticipated. The sounds she had made as he touched her. It was all too much. It was crazy to think she might actually fancy him, crazy enough that she considered him a friend firstly. That fucking famed Gryffindor bravery fused with her wit was a deadly combination, but then throw a heaping handful of pure innocence and she was a deadly sin incarnate. She invoked far too many emotions and feelings and desires within his blood, completely unaware of it.

Just how was it possible?

She was too terrible a liar to be putting on airs, even if her face betrayed nothing her voice did. And if she managed to keep her voice contained, her body certainly couldn’t lie.  
Fucking Flying Flobberworms, she was about to be twenty years old and she was just as innocent as they day they’d met nine years prior. Still with a mane of untamable hair, still with a haughty disposition, and still just as stubborn. 

How that idiotic Weasel even managed to turn her head was anybody’s guess, but then for him to be so completely ignorant of her affections for him was preposterous. And only to prove the point by not plucking that flower when he had the chance, not even putting a cheap arsed ring on her finger in a promise to do so. He wondered which of his Slytherin brethren had given Her the brief inclination that they saw her as a woman and what tactics they employed trying to snare her.

And she’d all but thrown herself into his lap and let him touch her.

He needed a drink.  
…………………………..

Saturday in the Drunk Dingo was his new home away from home. He didn’t have obligations to uphold, just show up and there was a wave, a smile, a friendly word for him. Well, for “Tom” actually but he’d finally come around to accepting that was his life now. Tom Felton in the pub and Draco Malfoy in the safety of his bedroom. Cody and Liam were far too inquisitive ever since that day they nearly busted his closet door down and Merlin help him if those two idiots had found her there.

He still didn’t know what to say if pressed upon the matter. Because eventually their paths were going to cross. He couldn’t keep hiding her whenever his friends showed up and if she went out into town she needed not only someone who was licensed to drive but also there to provide a cover story. Everyone believed he was staying with his aunt and uncle, but they were her parents and for the life of him he could not imagine telling a single soul that she was his cousin, not with how he felt when in her proximity.

This whole week had been a trial by fire for her and the Wilkins. Every time he saw them they were trying to do something to conjure forth a memory. He’d done the only decent thing he could of doing and stayed out of the way, throwing himself into work on the property-after his leg had healed of course-and even just carting the guitar around, strumming a melody as he wandered. When that bull-headed little twat black sheep of theirs kicked him-again-he was surprised by the cold efficiency she employed in the wake of a medical emergency. Then again, she’d lived a year on the run and had all kinds of mishaps before being brought to the manor, let alone after.

He was just grateful he was on the receiving end of medical care rather than a hex. Her wandwork was flawless. She’d make an excellent duelist. Alas, as he had no wand anymore so he wouldn’t be testing that theory any time soon. She reminded him of all the things he missed most: magic, and his mother. From the way she casually mentioned her friendship with his Slytherin friends he had half a mind to inquire about his mother but didn’t want to sound like some eager little boy only to be disappointed that she had nothing but a recounting of the latest Prophet article about her prized roses.

It was one thing to leave England. If he’d been given the choice he would’ve gladly left. They had properties dotted across Europe and he could’ve been content in any one of them; a seaside cottage in Ireland, a modest villa in Italy, the cabin in Switzerland…But exile…exile was cruel. He had no way to communicate, even if it had been allowed, just a letter once a week would’ve been better than nothing at all. The bitter thought that his own father in prison had more connections to the outside world than he did was another stab at his already raw nerves.

When he strolled inside, with the dark interior and the scent of lager in the air he closed his eyes and breathed it in. Breathe it in, breather Her out. Get your game face on, you have a gig tonight. A couple shots and a few swings at the electronic punching bag and one satisfying round of billiards had him in far better spirits. The pair of comrades he had tried divesting information out of him as to why he’d ran out on them last week and if he sorted out whatever it was he was going through but he skirted the inquires with jokes and jabs, earning just a bit more time until the inevitable.

Their turn up on stage followed an incredible cover of a Smashing Pumpkins song-a band he was hearing good things about-so when they started in with “Comedown” by Bush it was a bit of a comedown, everyone still wanting to rock a little longer to a familiar styled song. The tips were not that generous. Fuckers. And then there was the heckler. Some drunken Irish wanker on holiday with a pint under his belt suddenly had balls and an even louder mouth, taking out his displeasure at the musical selection and Draco’s appearance, even insulting the way his guitar looked. It had a unique, hand-painted design on it that Wendell hadn't been able to explain since it didn't have it when he first bought it.

Now that was crossing the line.

Draco managed one good strong connection to the guys’ face-at the mercy of his knuckles-before the crowd got too rowdy and involved and he found himself dragged off in one direction and the gimpy garden gnome in the other. The twat’s friends eventually got him calmed and they left none too soon afterwards to avoid any contact with police as Draco pushed both Cody and Liam off as he stormed to the loo to clean his hand and get his shit together in private.

Gripping the sink, slapping his cheeks with cold water, he was reminded all too well of that fateful day in sixth year, stupid Potter following after him and throwing hexes like crazy. He could barely recall who threw the first one but it didn’t matter, Potter sure put an end to it quickly with that ripper of a spell he hadn’t bothered to study up on. Snape had informed him of it later on once he came to in the infirmary. He risked a glance in the mirror, terrified for a second that he’d see that head of dark hair and gleaming green eyes.

Nothing but his own tortured grey ones met him.

When he pulled himself together he announced he was done for the night, took his portion of the shitty tips, slapped a bill down and slugged one more shot before locking up the guitar and storming out of the bar. He was far too pissed to be pissed, his anger burning the alcohol before it reached his blood, and managed to convince the barkeep he was fine to drive. The adrenaline coursing through him kept his hand numb but by the time he got home it ached. 

A shower was the perfect deflection, giving him time to clear his head and wash away the remnants of the Dingo, his hand shaking now that the pain had reared its ugly head, rolling his forehead against the tiles, wondering just how he was going to keep that pesky too-bloody-curious-for-her-own-good witch away from him without completely losing it, finding nothing better than good old-fashioned ignoring and barricading himself in his room for the rest of the evening.  
…………………………..

After that sobering cold shoulder from him during dinner, noticing he kept his right hand in his lap and dominantly ate with his left, with a curt goodnight to her and their hosts, Hermione felt that underlying message all too clear as if he spoke it: Leave me alone. So she did, just curling up on the couch with Hamlet and pretended to be engrossed with a book as her father watched Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Monica brought out a load of laundry and without even giving it a thought, Hermione jumped right in to help get everything all folded.

“It’s been a tough week, hasn’t it?” she said, a weak opening but one nonetheless.

Hermione gave a little grunt and nodded, focusing on the towel. 

“We’ve thought it over, and we think we’re ready to have you do the spell.”

Her hands froze. “Are…you sure? I mean I can’t stop once I’ve begun…I can’t risk muddling things up.” She exclaimed, eyes darting between the two of them. “I have one last tool I haven’t tried yet…frankly I’m scared of how you’ll react…”

“What is it?” he asked.

She took in a breath. “It’s something that will allow you to see real, actual memories. My memories…” she answered with baited breath. “And frankly, I don’t know if I should…but I have it. It’s physically harmless, nothing but sticking your head into a bowl but the things you’ll see and experience…It’s hard to explain.”

“No rush darling,” Monica soothed. “I think we’ll use Sunday as God intended and rest from all this memory business. Start fresh in the morning go from there.” She knew about the harrowing breakdown the poor girl had earlier and the fatigue was starting to show in her eyes. “I think what you need a hot cuppa chamomile and a good night’s sleep. All of us could use a breather.”  
………………………….

The chamomile had been hot and soothing. But now hours had gone by, the mug long cold and the remaining tea tepid, abandoned shortly after the Wilkins had bade their goodnights and flicked the light off in the hall. Nothing but the kitchen’s above stove light was on, shadows seemingly stretching along the walls with the flicker of distant lightning and the soft patter of rain. 

They attacked cowardly, while the sky was still dark with night, stars twinkling mockingly above. A thousand missiles lighting up the sky in a brilliant display that could rival any muggle firework show. The crack and sizzle as they collided with the shield over the school had been deafening at first, but oddly drowned out into mere background noise as the trolls and giants and Acromantula pounded at the stone walls, skittering through the trees, and the grinding sound of animated statues given life in order to defend the castle and the lives within.

The bridge exploded into splinters, wooden shrapnel flying in all directions, piercing bodies indiscriminately. The sickening sound it made as it rammed through flesh, the shrieks of those penetrated and pinned, gurgling as they drowned in their own blood in a gruesome but quick death.

Towers crumbled, stone shattering and cracked, that bone gritting sound that jarred one’s teeth and pierced the brain as tons fell like building blocks. Screams that started, cut off too soon by the rubble and the deafening roar. Dust swirled in the air, obscuring what available clear air had been left, blurs of colors as spells were still shot but now flying wildly in the haze.

The room of requirement, ablaze with the golden glow of Fiendfyre, the serpentine form slithering along the paths of floor space, giving them no option but to climb, grabbing onto mountains of discarded furniture and art, old quidditch equipment and personal effects left behind from students graduating, the roar in their ears as Crabbe shook his wand in panic, trying to fling the spell free, only feeding it with each agitation. Somehow, Harry and Ron had found brooms….

Greyback and his wet red face, the blood of Lavender Brown dribbling down his chin after ripping out her throat and savaging her corpse, howling like a demon possessed. It wasn’t even a full moon that day, and he was still capable of such devastation. The way his piercing eyes fixated on her for a split second before dodging the spell fired at him, lunging away to safety, off to rampage through the countryside on the run. His whereabouts still unknown.

The lightning flashed bright, the thunder to follow cracked loud as it shook the house, startling Hamlet up instantly, ears alert and eyes searching for a sign of danger.  
Hermione bolted upright, a mute scream in her throat from the images replaying themselves through her mind in horrifying clarity. She could practically smell the smoke of the burnt corpses and hear the screams and wails of those injured and mourning. Flailing, shaking, her hand was unsteady as it grasped the chilled mug and unfortunately dumped its contents across herself, spilling the brown liquid across her chest and lap, the shock of the cold liquid making her jump, but the sight of which had her feeling her body for wounds.

Blood. Everywhere. All over. Was it hers? Was she hurt? 

She grabbed her shirt and flung it off over her head, running her palms over her torso and breasts. No cuts. No gashes.

Standing up, she shimmied her jeans off having never retrieved any pajamas after Draco disappeared into his room. Her legs were exposed to the air conditioned room, shivering with the dampness that had seeped through. Again, she checked her body for wounds. No spell blasts, no bites.

It didn’t quell her panic by much, her breathing still rushed and shallow as she fumbled through the dim living room, bumping into furniture and nearly tripping over the dog. Her hands slid across the wall until she reached the first door. She wasted no time in turning the knob and stepping into the dark abode before nearly falling into the toilet. Grabbing the sink she flung a knob on and began splashing herself with water, neverminding that it was ice cold. She needed the shock. Something to ground her and tell her where she was. This wasn’t the Head Girl’s dorm, nor was it the common room. She scooped water and brought it to her mouth, drinking only half as the rest spilled from her trembling palms.

My wand. I need my wand. I’m defenseless. 

Lightning shattered her train of thought as she dropped immediately to the floor to protect herself, expecting some kind of attack. Hamlet was pacing outside the bathroom door, whimpering, whining, scared and looking for shelter. When nothing happened she popped back up, grabbing the sink and nearly sliding right back onto the floor as the basin had begun to fill. She turned the knob, cutting off the downpour and kept her head low, afraid of what she’d see in the mirror-or who-and closed the door behind her, inhaling slowly as she fought to control herself. The thunder rumbled, shaking the very foundation and dropping her to the floor, where this time she stayed, crawling on hands and knees to the next door, fumbling several times to reach the knob before she managed to turn it. Hamlet bounded in, pushing past her and with an agile leap, claimed a corner of the bed, barely disturbing the form lying within.

She pushed the door shut behind her. She never liked having her back exposed to an open door. It shut with a soft click, barely heard over the rain slapping heavy drops along the window and the scratching of the nearby shrubbery against the outside. Still ambling on her hands and knees, she crawled to the dresser and pulled at the bottom, finding it oddly full of books. Struggling to close it, she shoved it hard, causing books sitting on the dresser’s surface to topple over and clatter over her and the floor.

The form in bed groaned and shifted.

“Nnnnngggghhhh….”

Her breath held, she listened and waited until she was sure it safe to move, struggling with another drawer but finding it stuck on something, the jerking causing even more of a ruckus. Fuck. Just need to find some clothes, doesn’t matter what. Patting along the floor her hand brushed across the soft material of a flannel shirt, carelessly flung to the floor. Perfect.

“Mmmmhhhmmm…”

She slipped one arm in, then the other, fumbling for buttons when she heard it:

“Hermiiiiioonnneee…”

She froze.

Did he know she was in here?

He shifted again, fighting the blanket this time. His breaths sounded labored. He winced as if in pain. 

Still squatting on her haunches, she peered over the edge of the mattress, watching as he moved about.

“I’m sorry…” he choked out, grasping at his own shirt like it was strangling him. After a few more moments of gasping and grabbing he sat up and ripped the shirt off his body, flinging it wildly off his arm before bracing his elbows up on his knees and forcing himself to calmly breathe, hands pressed against his forehead.

“Merlin be damned…” he whispered with exhaustion. Hamlet immediately crawled over, pawing at him for attention. “How’d you get in you little traitor? Pretty girl shows up and suddenly she’s your best friend?” he ruffled the dog’s ears and under his chin, getting him to do that “Thumper” thing with his leg. He kicked off the remaining blanket clinging to his leg and turned so his feet touched the floor.

“Fucking hell Hammy…I can’t stop screwing up with her.” He confessed, hanging his head. “What the fuck is it gonna take for me do something right? I’m no bloody Gryffindor.” He rubbed a hand along his neck and sighed. 

Hermione clutched the mattress, ankles wobbling as she tried to remain upright.

Hamlet nudged along Draco’s side with a meaningful whine, the lighting flashing brilliantly, temporarily blinding as it had been a bit since the last. The thunder rumbled along in a low timbre, shifting its trajectory. He turned his head to look at the window, watching the rain a moment. She ducked low, hoping not to be seen. All she need was to get to her wand, there on his nightstand. Why was it there? Why didn’t she have it beside her?

“Come on Ham, you better go curl up with your princess.” He said, ushering the dog up and focusing his attention on making it to this door, just as she crab-walked her way in the opposite direction, inching closer to her precious wand. When he opened the door the dog hesitated, sitting down and looking up at him. “What are doing you daffy pup? Go on.” He motioned with his hand. The dog remained. Draco threw his head back and sighed before stomping out into the hall, ordering the dog to fall in line and make his way into the living room, giving her the golden opportunity she needed, dashing quickly on hands and knees towards the nightstand and grabbing the beloved tool. She’d been foolish to leave it behind. A witch must never leave her wand.

“Hermione?” his voiced called out, etched in concern.

He found the couch empty, discarded clothes and empty mug lying on its side onto the floor. The bathroom was dark and unoccupied, as was the kitchen and the rest of the house. He backtracked to his bedroom door, coming face to face with a scantily clad Hermione Granger with a look of absolute terror on her face, wand shaking in her grip.  
She backed up until her legs brushed against the bedframe.

“Ok…Either I’m having a very lucid dream or you’re really here…” he said, suddenly cautious of his surroundings as if they would start to melt around him now that he’d called the bluff on their validity. He had waaay too many dreams involving a scantily clad Hermione Granger-in one of his shirts-in his room before and now was questioning reality as he knew it.

“We’re both here.” She replied. True as it was, it provided no clarity.

“Hermione…could you…put your wand down?”

She stiffened. Clutched it tighter. Held her breath. He could see her pupils shrink with an underlying fear of what could happen if she didn’t have it.

“I meant…you know, you should be going back to bed…no one’s going to take it.”

“I heard… There were explosions…” she stammered.

“No darling, that was just lightning. It’s raining. I promise.” He placated calmly, recognizing it for what it was; a flashback. The Battle of Hogwarts.

She hesitated, eyes darting around. Looking for an exit.

“You can stay…if you want.” He offered. “The bed’s far more comfortable. And I’ll stay up. I’ll stand watch.”

“What if they come back?”

Honestly, he had no idea who “they” were but telling her that no Death Eaters would find her out here didn’t seem the best route to take. “Hamlet will go nuts first, he’ll let us know. But you need rest. You’ve pushed yourself.” He bravely took a step forward, his hands held up to show he was no threat. “I promise, I’ll keep you safe.”

She shivered. “I’m cold.” 

He nodded. “Of course you are…” he approached closer, each step bringing him closer, revealing to him that she had beads of water hanging along her curves, glistening like diamonds in the moonlight now that the storm clouds had begun to part, the thunder rumbling in the distance. His hand slowly reached out, offering to take the wand and set it aside. Her hand wavered, but she eventually lifted it up. It took a minute of eternity for her to place it in his palm, but she’d relented and relinquished the potential weapon. “Good girl. Excellent.”

While still keeping his gaze trained on her he set it on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, the one that housed a table lamp and the recent book he was reading. He thought about turning the light on, but figured the introduction of bright light might trigger her and she was already in a fragile state. He motioned for her to come forward, towards him, but all she did was simply turn in place. Fear had rooted her to the spot on the floor.

She pulled on the edges of the shirt to wrap around herself, shivering strongly. But her eyes kept darting over to the door.

“Do you want me to…?” he pointed at the open doorway, to which she nodded vigorously. “Alright.” He slowly but purposefully marched over, quietly shut the door and then came back to her side before she could contemplate making a move. “You need body heat… Can I touch you, help you warm up?”

Her lips quivered but she made no move to dart away. So he held up one hand, showing her it was safe, and gently opened the shirt. Like approaching a wild doe, one wrong move would send her running, he slowly brought it closer until they finally touched, palm to stomach, her body cold and damp. He didn’t think he’d get a coherent answer if he started making inquiries, so he held his tongue and softly moved back and forth to create a little friction across her abdomen. 

She swayed a little on her feet, prompting him to place one hand on her shoulder and pull her in close, so that their chests touched. Upon contact she fell right into him, like he was a life raft and she’d exhausted herself swimming in the dark. Her head rested against his shoulder, her cold hands placing themselves on his hips, sliding them back and forth across his lower back to warm them up as he wrapped his arms around her and held her in place.

“I’m sorry about earlier this evening.”

She didn’t say anything; eyes closed and nestled against his scarred chest like a kitten brought in from the cold. He surmised she barely registered anything he’d said, deciding to save the apology for later when her mind was clear. When her hands dropped from his sides and her knees buckled he swooped down into a quick squat and scooped an arm under her knees, supporting her head and bringing her up to his chest so as to lay her down on his bed. Once upon her back her shirt fell open, revealing a hideous scar running the length of her right side, branching out like lightning, spanning her ribcage and down to her hip.

Curiously, he raced a finger along the wicked mark. She had scars, just like him. There was a strange twist in his chest upon seeing the wound, obvious use of dark magic. Did this happen during the battle at the school? Who did it? Did she kill them in return? How dare… How dare someone do this to her…

Anger burned through his veins. She wasn’t supposed to be marred like this. It was one thing, her not hiding the Mudblood scar, but this…was this why she never let anyone close to her? No dating? No kissing other than on the lips? No experience with flirting? It hurt him; hurt him to think that she’d shied away from all of that in some misconceived perception of beauty and what a woman was supposed to look like under her clothes. 

Oh, no wonder she wasn’t put off by his scars…her own were just as tragic and wrong, an attempt on her life that should’ve never happened. 

Before he could even argue with himself, he was buttoning up the plaid patterned shirt, protecting her modesty and any knowledge he’d had of the wound. He wouldn’t bring it up until she was ready to discuss it. It was something he shouldn’t have known about it anyhow. There were far too many questions burning on the tip of his tongue that he had just as to why she was in his room, undressed, soaking wet, and what the hell she was talking about through most of it. The scar could fucking wait. The poor girl needed rest if she was going to make it to her twentieth birthday.

He pulled the blanket up around her, making sure her nude legs were covered on all sides, as well as her feet before he crawled up and nestled in beside her at her back, his arm gently draped across her hip where his hand fell in perfectly over hers, interlacing their fingers of their left hands so that she would feel him beside her and know he kept his word. He’d watch over her. He’d stand guard.

After all, that’s what dragons did with their beautiful maidens.  
………………………..


	20. Ruminate & Relaxation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a day of rest for Hermione and rumination for Monica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music - Wonderwall by Oasis

Sunday 12, September 1999

As per routine, Monica Wilkins was the first to wake, even on a Sunday.

She couldn’t say why, if you’d asked her little over a year ago, why she woke up every morning and checked her alarm clock, then checked on the door of the spare bedroom, hand poised to knock as if to wake someone for school even though she had no child. And then, after taking “Tom” in, the urge had not subsided, it merely blossomed as if she’d finally figured out that what she had been missing was a sense of responsibility for another.

And not just for her husband.

Wendell surely didn’t NEED her to wake before him and get a jump on breakfast; it was just something that happened naturally with them. She woke anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes before him, giving her enough “her” time in the bathroom and then to peruse the fridge and start a kettle. Sometimes she’d even grab the paper and start in on the crossword puzzle, seeing how much of it she could complete before he’d rise from the dead and lumber himself in to the table, led by his nose to the alluring aroma of brewing ground roast.

Nectar of the gods and liquid of life.

She was no stranger to running the house like a tight ship, a place for everything and everything in its place. It allowed her the freedom to explore hobbies she hadn’t yet delved into or catch up on some reading, and even give Wendell a hand outside when they first moved out into their “dream home” and bought their little bundle of sheep. Feeding them, naming them, watching as Hamlet ran circles around them, watching the vibrant sunsets and equally inspiring sunrises…life felt good, content.

Almost perfect.

And there was the rub.

There was something missing. Like there should be a third party instead of a dynamic duo, the third point of the triangle to create a shape of unity. At times she’d be making a kettle of tea and set out three mugs rather than two. She’d be discussing something with Wendell and turn her head as if to ask someone for their opinion, almost expecting that phantom to manifest into a form she could almost see. She pick up a book and smile, hearing a young girl’s voice prattle on about its contents, clearly memorized from multiple reads and she’d turn…but no one was there.

Was the house haunted?

Was it merely her biological clock kicking in too late, telling her she’d missed her window for motherhood and now craved what she couldn’t have?

Was she having a mid-life crisis?

But then, Wendell felt it too.

The sheep provided a distraction, a responsibility away from idle thoughts, a purpose to their day other than to each other…but it wasn’t as satisfying as they initially thought it’d be. It gave them a reason to venture into town and browse the aisles of hardware stores and for Wendell to stay active as he liked, but at the end of the day they often found lulls in their conversation as if there was someone ready to fill them in about their adventures of youth.

That day when they’d been coming back from a little outing in the Outback and needed to refuel had truly been one of divine intervention. 

\- 000 -

“I’m not going to be able to hold it the entire way back, let’s just hit the next exit.” She complained, grinding her thighs together in the telltale struggle of trying to put off a call from Mother Nature.

“Alright love.” He sighed, looking at the dash. “Wouldn’t hurt to fuel up either. Tell me, how’d we go from relying mostly on public transpo to now stocking up on fuel for a little outing? Did we really need that much of a change?”

“Our skin certainly thinks so. I don’t recall ever being this tan in all my life.” She laughed, thanking every deity out there when they passed a sign marking a petrol station and other landmarks of note. When he pulled up to the pump station she’d all but fallen out of the car in her haste to get the facilities, noticing the slumped form of a poorly sunburned tourist trying to find some shade to hide in.

After she finished her business and washed her hands, dabbing her face and neck, she recalled the man and how brightly pink he was, a clear sign of sun exposure and possible dehydration. She bit her lip in thought, then grabbed the paper towel and dried her hands, already set in her mind. She stormed over to the coolers and selected a large bottle of water and then grabbed a handful of Power Bars. The poor chap had clearly underestimated the power of the Australian sun and was suffering the painful consequences of it.  
And it wasn’t like her to ignore someone in need.

When she approached the poor kid she realized he was younger than she had originally thought, his hair so brightly white she’d mistaken him for being her senior, but this youth could very well be her son in age. He had on days’ old clothing evident with sweat stains, his sleeves rolled up revealing a hideous snake and skull tattoo on his left arm that looked like it had recently been scratched by a dog. The skin was blistered and looked infected.

At the twist of the cap his eyes snapped open, a piecing grey unlike any she’d ever seen. For a moment it looked like he was faced with a ghost.

“Granger?” he rasped.

She shook her head. “Sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else.” Although, the name sounded vaguely familiar. “Here, you’re parched.” She held the water bottle to his peeling lips and watched him have a religious experience with the refreshing liquid.

“Careful, not too much.” She warned. “It’ll make you sick. Have you any sun block, your skin is as pink a school eraser.”

“Can’t block the sun…it’s everywhere….” He murmured, pooling water into his hand and patting his bright cheeks and neck.

His accent sounded oddly familiar as well. She looked over her shoulder and motioned for Wendell to join her when he finished with the pump. She unwrapped a Power Bar and held it up to him, he nearly bit into the shiny wrapping along with the bite he launched into the protein bar. An audible gurgle sloshed in his gut.

“Goodness, have you eaten?”

“No ma’am…” he answered, pausing to take another drink and nearly dropped the bottle. “No food…nothing anymore…”

Wendell joined her. “What’s this?”

“Sweetheart, he’s suffering from sun stroke. We can’t leave him out here like this.” She said with fierce determination.

He sighed, contemplating the mileage. “Hospital’s clear in the other direction love, and we’re already knackered as it is. Why not call him a taxi?”

“He could pass out before then!” she hissed vehemently, looking at her husband incredulously, as if he could be so thick to suggest a thing. “Look at him Dell, his skin is bubblegum pink as it is! And this.” She held up his arm. “It’s infected. Must’ve been attacked by a dog or something. He could go septic before the day is through.”

“Well what are you saying Mione? Just shove the cooler aside and put him in the backseat? Take him home?” he threw out sarcastically.

“Yes.” She deadpanned with flat, wooden eyes that left no room for argument.

He tossed his head back. “Christ, wasn’t the trip to the coast enough of an adventure? Now you wanna take home some random stranger like a souvenir?”  
She furrowed her brows at his crass remark. He only got sassy when he was tired. And he was Captain-behind-the-wheel for the duration home. But he knew he was being snippy and made an apologetic face. “Fine, I’ll clean out the backseat.”

The poor lad could barely move his limbs, and what was worse was that in broad daylight, with plenty of passersby coming and going to the station, not a single one had stopped to see if they needed help with a nearly unconscious man in their arms. As if the sight was all too common to interrupt. Not a single charitable soul around. Monica slipped into the backseat and had him rest his head in her lap, where she could make sure he was elevated enough when the bottle was brought to his lips and had something akin to a pillow.

Wendell dug out the travel med kit and handed it over as he got behind the wheel, apologizing for any bumps they’d encounter on the way as he kicked up dirt and set the pace. Throughout the jostling she was still able to put her medical training to use and open the necessary bottles of antiseptic fluid and scrape away some of the muck that had crusted over his rather ominous tattoo with swabs and then firmly wrap gauze over the freshly bloody mess.

The kid barely moved. His skin was on fire with knees scraped in torn jeans and dirty shoes, a shirt that had seen better days; he looked like an everyday ordinary kid at first glance. But she’d gotten quite a good hard look at his tattoo, something that clearly said “I’m a bad boy, watch out.” but it didn’t mesh with the finely chiseled features of his dare she say, aristocratic features? The kid had the making of being a model with that bone structure and pale brows to match his hair. Either he’d had a thorough bleaching or he was naturally that fair, hence the intense sunburn. She was going with the latter. Someone with enough money to spend on a proper bleach job and get their brows to match would surely care about their clothing in the same manner and not be in such a way.

“Hey there, tell me your name.” she urged him after tipping the water bottle back to his mouth.

He drank messily, half sputtering in his haste for quenching his thirst. She didn’t care that it ended up all over her lap and legs, as long as the majority got in him. 

“…lost it…” he murmured incoherently.

He certainly had all right. He didn’t give a proper answer to anything she asked, in the car and when they got him inside their house, firstly setting him on the couch as they straightened up the spare room. For some reason, they felt compelled to put a bed into their little “office” room as in preparation for a guest they hadn’t had yet. It was coming in handy now. Laid out it was apparent the kid would be in need of a bigger bed but for now it would work.

They divested him of his clothing-except his underwear-so they could assess the severity of his sunburn and check for other wounds, and found a litany of lightning-like slashes across his chest that had that tight pearly sheen which spoke of their recent existence. Wendell leaned in close to investigate, finding no suture marks, almost as if the lines had simply fused shut, smoother without the unevenness of a hand threaded stitch.

Monica plopped his clothing into the wash and obtained the bottle of Aloe Vera, smearing globs of it across his arms, shoulders and face. The boy winced and flinched and panted with exhaustion but otherwise said nothing, understood nothing. Her nursing training under her belt, she knew he needed constant supervision, antibiotics, and electrolytes. With his tattoo cleaned for the time being it was of lesser concern than making sure he saw it through the night.

And the one to follow.

And during the brief moment he had of lucidity but no energy, Wendell helped him to the bathroom and stood by the door to give him a modicum of privacy yet was close enough to help cart him over to the sink to wash up and then back to the bedroom. It surprised them that he didn’t even inquire who they were, where he was, what he was doing there like most people would. He’d simply accepted the help for what it was and fell straight back into sleep. Too far gone in his suffering to worry himself with details such as that.

They took turns. Rotated the shift every few hours between them. Traded his clothing in for a pair of Wendell’s pajamas so the kid wouldn’t be terrified waking up nearly naked in a stranger’s bed. Recleaned his left arm. Pumped him full of fluids and fever reducing medication-knowing there was a risk involved not knowing his medical history or potential allergies. Smeared more green goo into his skin. Their faithful and protective border collie dubbed Hamlet stayed in the room with him, having sniffed him all over and found him a fascinating quarry, then perched himself on the corner of the bed, however long that didn’t last as the young man tossed heavily in his sleep, murmuring pleas and muffled cries.

“I have to do it…. He’s going to kill me….”

“God no….how did it come to this….?”

“Please… Just stop screaming…. Please….”

The Wilkins shared a brow-raised look of concern. Just what had this poor kid been put through? Wendell had been wary from the get-go but now his suspicions paid off. There had been this niggling feeling that they shouldn’t trust this fella, at least not to let their guard down around him. Something about his appearance set off a tinkling warning bell in the back of his mind…was he familiar on the telly? A wanted criminal? Some local hooligan? He couldn’t say why he felt the word Bully came to mind; the lad was half his age and therefore couldn’t have been a bully in his schooldays. But there was something. 

And Wendell never ignored his intuition.

Once more the blond youth was tossing in his tortured sleep, and this time Monica couldn’t take it any longer, rushing out of the room with her hands to her mouth and tears in her eyes. Immediately her husband was by her side, rubbing her arms, coaxing her to tell him what was wrong.

“It’s him…” she answered in a watery voice. “Calling out to his mum.”

He inhaled and stiffened his spine, rubbing her back. “Ah.”

Her head rolled along his chest. This was a sensitive subject for her. Ever since they moved here a year ago they’d found themselves often answering to a child’s call for their parent, craning their neck around the aisle of the grocery store, around a tree at the park, over their shoulder as they strolled through town. Especially if it was a young girl’s voice, the pull was irresistible. And when she’d engage in talks with a woman in line she’d feel a pang in her chest, a longing that compelled her hand to want to run through the child’s hair and brag about something marvelous her own had done, only…there was no child beside her.

When he opened his eyes and they were clear and curious for the first time since she’d seen them, looking at her with intensity and a touch of fear, she knew his fever had broken and he was lucid. She touched his cheek and forehead with the back of her fingers as he flinched slightly, but remained in place, realizing she meant him no harm.  
He was like a wild little fawn, scared and ready to run.

Even more so when Wendell stepped into the room, realizing he was wearing the man’s sleepwear. “Ah good to see you’ve pulled through lad. Had us in a fright that first day.” He said kindly, after all, the kid was a stranger in a strange land and needed a helping hand. Wouldn’t do well to come at him with a cold shoulder and glare.

“First day?” he sputtered. “How long have I been here?”

“That’d be about two and a half now. You’ve been in and out with fever so you probably don’t recall. Helped you to the loo once or twice, which is ‘bout all you had the energy for.”

The sunburned face flushed with embarrassment. He mumbled something along the likes of a ‘thank you’ but he couldn’t be sure. A little anecdote about switching the English deluge for the Australian drought put him at slightly better ease, that and a trip to use the facilities and he was walking without assistance to join them in the dining room as Monica had prepared sandwiches with their tea.

They introduced themselves, and there was a long hesitation from him before he merely confessed to being robbed before filling his cheeks to buy himself some time. They’d already figured that out considering he had nothing; no wallet, no pocket change, no forms of identification whatsoever and he didn’t have anything other than the clothes on his back. Which they assured him were cleaned and set aside for him. Hamlet came up, nudging him for handouts and he nearly jumped out of his pinken skin.

“Sorry, that’s Hamlet. He doesn’t like being ignored.”

He nervously shifted away from the collie, unsure if he could trust that mouth full of teeth. “Go…” he motioned with his hand. Hamlet merely sat and pressed his head against his thigh.

“Seems he’s taken a liking to you.” Wendell quipped. “Which I’d say is better than him perceiving you as a threat…all things considering.”

Their conversation shifted tracks a few times, with them informing him of his condition and how they feared for his mental state if left alone in the hospital, not knowing how he’d gotten there. With both of them having medical backgrounds they ascertained that his condition was within their ability to handle. He was exceptionally polite and carried himself quite well despite having hung on the verge of death for the past few days. Every answer he gave was not without hesitation and considerable thought, like he was trying to remember answers to an oral exam.

“Just how long have you been here?” Monica asked.

The boy shrugged. “Couldn’t be more than three weeks. Especially given the few days I just slept through. I’ve lost track since being evicted…and well…losing everything…”

It didn’t take for the two of them to come upon the same thought and for once, there was no arguing about it. They were going to let this poor kid stay with them until he got back on his feet. At least, that’s how it started….

-000- 

Draco had developed the habit of waking fairly shortly after Monica, both of whom made quiet of their time, giving Wendell his customary twenty to thirty minutes of his waking process. Given last night’s storm and the bizarre encounter with Hermione, sleep eluded him for much of the late evening to morning. He stayed spooned up to her backside, over the blanket; arm loomed over her side to provide her a sense of security. At some point in her slumber she had a moment where she thrashed and whimpered, and had he not already been holding onto her hand it more than likely would’ve found its way into his face again.

He held her through the fit, all the while whispering encouraging words, pressing soft kisses to the back of her neck, silently weeping to himself that she still struggled like he occasionally did. It just wasn’t fair. She’s already been through enough; does she need night terrors too? They each had gone through their own personal hell before being thrown into opposition that fateful day in May. With her on the victorious side of the fight he would’ve thought that the best St. Mungo’s had to offer would have healed the Golden Trio mentally as well as physically.

Instead, she was just as broken as he was and he not okay with that. 

Nestled into the lushness of her hair he finally found reprieve as she slipped back into restful slumber and savored the feel of a warm and soft body beside him. A comfort he hadn’t experienced much in his life. Not that he had never curled up beside a naked bedpartner before, but the trysts were short and sweet and covert so not much time was allotted for cuddling. Back then, talking big talk with the other blokes in Slytherin, cuddling was often disregarded as something that only Momma’s Boys did and that “manly” wizards didn’t cuddle their witch. Oh what did stupid teenage boys know anyways?

He wasn’t even questioning how easy it was to have fallen in with her like he had. Ever since their “Apology Day” as he was calling it, with how she entwined herself so thoroughly with him that he couldn’t get away even if he had wanted, it had just become almost natural. Like breathing, you didn’t have to think about it. So no, there was no inner monologue debating in his mind over what the fuck was he doing and why was he doing it and how would she react when she awoke. He wanted to hold her and therefore he was, nothing more to it. If she pushed him away and told him he overstepped he would willingly back away and wait for when she granted him permission to do so.   
How she’d started out as his most competent school rival to target of genocide from his family’s actions to now lying half dressed in his arms was an Arithmancy equation he doubted he’d ever find the answer to but he wasn’t about to go questioning the intricate path they had taken to get to this point. The only problem he found himself struggling with was trying to label just what it was they’d become.

They knew each other too well to be acquaintances. But he was pretty sure they’d crossed some sort of unspoken boundary in the multitude of levels within the category of friendship into something slightly deeper. Unfortunately, that could also be taken in one of two directions: being regarded as a brother, or being regarded as a potential lover. It was a specific kind of torture to be caught in the in-between, the thin precarious line that it was.

But when it came down to it, he honestly didn’t deserve the honor of either.

Hermione felt the pressure of something solid behind her back and for a moment was secure in the familiarity that sleeping on the couch had brought, but there was something different in the way it felt this time that compelled her to open her eyes and scour her surroundings. Not the living room; a bedroom, and from the few personal effects and select furniture, it was Draco’s bedroom.

And that’s when she realized there was a hand resting on her hip and the weight of his head pinning her hair down, the tip of his nose brushing against her neck as he breathed. And she was wearing HIS shirt. And the graze of the blanket against her bare skinned legs told her she wasn’t wearing her jeans from the day before. Something clearly happened and for the life of her she couldn’t recall a single thing in putting the How and the Why together.

He groaned a little and stirred against her, making her body stiffen and her eyes widen, mind going a million miles an hour. He was too close. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine and the intense heat of his hand even through the flannel of his shirt and the blanket covering her hips. His breath tickled the fine hairs on the nape of her neck in a steady rhythm she could count, truly asleep.

And for a moment, she felt safe.  
……………………………

So, as per her routine in the morning, Monica quietly passed through the living room and opened the front door to let Hamlet out, closing it behind him and turning to find an empty couch where normally now there would be a sleeping girl. Figuring she might be in the loo, it didn’t reach up to her alarm bells until she found the tea-scented discarded clothing on the floor, along with the mug she drank from last night, and a damp pool puddle on the floor.

She picked up the oddly discarded items and set the mug on the counter before winding her way down the hall and into the back end of the house where the laundry room was located, tossing the stained tank top and darkened jeans into the washing machine. When she came back there was still no sign the young lady, in the living room or bathroom.  
Curiosity was always her Achilles’ heel.  
…………………………….

He hadn’t realized it was an actual survival tactic, mastering the art of pretending to be asleep when he’d woken up and knew he wasn’t alone. Firstly, it had been a means as garnering a few extra minutes of privacy in a dorm with other boys when he’d been accustomed to his own quarters for the first ten years of his life. He liked having the room to himself when it came to undressing, so he would wait until they’d be finished or nearabout before giving up the goose and announcing his presence to the world. 

Then, he found that lips were looser when they believed a certain someone to be unconscious, and he’d learned many secrets in the whispered gossip circulating in the school. He took the practice of “fake sleeping” in the common room, selecting a cozy chair in the corner with a book propped in his lap like he’d just nodded off when the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. Pansy and Daphne were excellent sources of information, a currency that Slytherins dealt with as much as their galleons.

The trick to pulling this act off flawlessly was to not immediately yawn nor stretch when initially waking. Once that passed the test the next hurdle was to give no reaction to anything overheard. Especially if you were the subject of discussion. The urge to snort, laugh, gasp, or immediately respond to something said had to be held in check, as well as schooling one’s features to not give away their consciousness. Lips could not curl into a smile, brows could not raise, even a nose twitch might be enough to a competent observer.

Honed initially as a harmless way to ferret out those trustworthy, it had never become more prudent when he had returned home after fifth year to find his home overrun by Death Eaters under his Aunt Bella’s command while his father was imprisoned in Azkaban. Wards were in place around various rooms, very few areas were left in privacy and even then you couldn’t trust you weren’t being spied upon. Communication with his mother had to be covert and coded. Speaking his mind was a surefire way to get himself hexed or beaten before it became a regular pastime under the guise of “training”. 

It was how he learned of his fate, physically and mentally exhausted, unable to actually gather any sleep, and thus employed the good old fake-sleeping just for the reprieve it gave him at that time, when mention of him taking up the mantle and stepping into his father’s shoes was brought up. Talk of carrying on his legacy and proving himself loyal and worthy, the scion of two mighty pureblood households was now being handpicked to follow the Dark Lord’s order. It was all the warning he had on the issue before it happened, he hadn’t been given a chance to prepare, it was not an offer. His mother had been forbidden to speak of it and give him a head’s up, his actions needed to be true.  
Scared shitless, he pretended it was a high honor and agreed to do what was “asked” of him, hearing the underlying threat against his mother’s life if he failed just like his father had. 

And the rest was history.

When the Wilkins presented their offer of letting him stay with them he wasn’t in a position to refuse. He literally only had the clothes on his back and shoes on his feet as possessions and didn’t know how to do the muggle job originally assigned him and couldn’t keep the pitiful little muggle flat the ministry had set him up in and had no money or identification. He was a nobody, reduced to nothing, missed by none. They insisted he rest-which was much needed-but it provided him an excellent way to prepare himself as they whispered their concerns for him in the hallway, thinking him passed out. He couldn’t rely on his Legilimency as his magic was blocked with a sealing spell, so everything little thing was a new experience. There was only so much he could pretend to have knowledge of or not be shocked by.

He was not above using whatever means that gave him an advantage, all things considering he’d been long dead otherwise. But it no longer needed to be a survival tactic; he was in a safe place with good people and had established a sense of familiarity in his new environment, becoming something almost like family. But where Granger was concerned, it not only proved to be entertaining, but in this case, necessary.

He could feel that she had awakened. Her body language was far too raw and unhindered. She stiffened and immediately started controlling her breathing in a mechanical fashion as she made tiny movements to ascertain her state of undress and proximity to his body. Even without Legilimency or seeing her face he could tell her brain was already kicking into gear, trying to figure out how she ended up in his bed. For a moment he felt pity for her, that overactive brain never giving her a moment’s peace if she was already wound up first thing in the morning. Off to conquer the world before her feet even touch the floor, that one.

It took her several minutes to finally come down from her state of hyper-awareness and relaxing against his form, a pleasant surprise to be sure, he was certain that she’d elbow him and scamper before he could even whisper a sultry little “good morning” into her ear. For the sake of protecting his vital bits though, he would refrain from doing something that stupid. And the struggle to not be aroused by the titular thought that she was wearing his shirt-and only his shirt-while nestled up beside him was one for the record books.

Having trained his ears for the slightest of sounds-hence why he was such an easily disturbed, light sleeper-he sensed the oncoming approach of motherly feet and made the wise decision to “wake up” and stretch, thus rolling over and away from Hermione a scant few seconds before the telltale knock rapped on his door and she twisted the handle.

“Drake, have you-” she stopped suddenly, caught abruptly off guard by the sight of his bed companion. “Oh, there you are…” she added sheepishly.

“Huh? Whuh?” he snorted and rubbed at his face, turning over and playing along to the ruse he set up. “Hermione?”

The brunette launched herself upright, clutching the blanket to her chest and looking between the two with a most bewildered expression. “I… uh…. I don’t know….”

Draco forced a yawn. “I told ya the bed was more comfortable…” he stated, scooting away from her, inching closer to his dresser. “Just warn a bloke next time…”

“Well….I’m sorry to have disturbed you-” Monica started to pull back the door.

“Wait!” Hermione shouted, holding a hand out to stop her. To her credit, the woman did, but then Hermione didn’t know what to do next.

“I think this proves my point, you need to take the day off to rest. No memory association, no spells, no trying to do anything. Just stay in bed, I’ll bring you something.”

And like that, the door was shut and the matter settled.

She turned to Draco, who was standing boxer-clad at his dresser, looking at the mess of books she caused the night before. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Seeing as it’s my room and you broke in at some point last night.” He squatted down and began collecting the hardbacks. “And you made a mess. A right terror you are.”

“This isn’t funny.” She snapped. Her voice had that inflection of fear underneath the anger.

“I’m not laughing.” He stated, stacking them up in no particular order, merely getting them off the floor. “Actually I’m quite concerned. I’ll tell you why if you tell me what you last remember.”

He knew her burning curiosity would overthrow her pride and make her cave for the information. Him acting not so bothered would only fuel her need to dig the answers out of him, supplying him with what he wanted.

“Could you throw some clothes on?” she instead requested, sounding quite irritated. 

Without missing a beat he said, “Then give back my shirt you stole.”

As if unaware of what was adorning her body her hand flew up to her chest, like protecting it from the X-ray vision he’d managed to keep hidden all these years that was suddenly common knowledge. “I did…not.” She sputtered.

“You did so.” He finished stacking the books and glanced at her. “Though, it looks good on you, so I’ll let it pass.” Instead he yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of grey joggers and slipped them up his waist. “There, between us there’s a full outfit.” He chuckled.

She scoffed at the in-poor-taste joke and grabbed more of the blanket around herself, feeling quite self-conscious of her bare legs. “You were in a bad mood yesterday…”

“Ah ah ah,” he chided, wagging a finger at her. “We’re not going down that avenue. So I had a shit night at the pub, that’s not what we’re supposed to be discussing and you know it. Don’t try that with me.”

Her bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly in the cutest pout he’d ever seen. “I don’t really remember…”

But he knew that wasn’t the entire truth. He knew when he had his flashbacks and what they consisted of. He didn’t like thinking about them, let alone talking about them, but there had been occasions where the Wilkins simply weren’t going to take ‘I don’t know’ for an answer. And even though it was a painful process, it did alleviate his spirits a bit after discussing them. Not that he’d willingly start up a conversation and be like ‘ok I’m totally ready to tell you all about my nightmares’ but honestly, he wanted to know what the hell she’d been through.

He marched right up to her side of the bed and sat, right leg folded horizontally, left leg parallel to the bed, foot on the floor. Close, with just an arm’s length of distance between them. Her back was against the headboard, knees drawn up. “I don’t buy it Hermione. You have an exceptional memory. You probably can recall the first day of school with better clarity than I, so stop trying to deflect. I know it was bad.” He placed his hand gently upon one of her blanket-clad feet. “You may not have screamed, but you were having a nightmare. I found you in here, the dog too. And you were shaking. Cold and wet. Can you tell me why?”

There was the barest of head shakes before there was another knock on the door, with Draco granting admission before it opened and Monica balancing a handheld tray one-handed as she struggled with the knob. Draco was on his feet in an instant, extracting the tray from her and returning to the spot he’d just vacated. Hermione had shifted her legs down, folded over in preparation to eat. 

“Make sure she eats.” The woman ordered of him, rushing back into the kitchen to prevent anything from burning just as the loud yawn and bear like sounds emitting from the down the hall signified the awakening of Wendell Wilkins.

“You hear that? I’m in charge.” Draco flashed a toothy smile, lifting one of the glasses of juice to his lips. “Eat up princess. I’m not going anywhere.”  
………………………..

Enforced bedrest was one thing. Having Draco Malfoy be her supervisor was another. And it wasn’t fair.

But Monica had ratted her out to Wendell and the whole lot of them conspired against her in a majority vote, with Draco spearheading the ruling as he informed them of the state he’d discovered her in and there was no coming back from that afterwards. With an indignant huff she pushed the tray away when she was finished and dared him with baleful eyes to force her to eat more.

Hamlet was let in and immediately jumped to her side, her only sympathetic companion. Which she was grateful for, since she was beginning to miss Crookshanks despite knowing he was probably living life high on holiday at Malfoy manor. She wouldn’t be surprised that the next she’d see him that he’d be a full stone heavier.

As Draco was now designated her babysitter, Wendell dealt with the outside chores alone and Monica set to making a grocery list-including ingredients needed for a certain someone’s upcoming birthday-giving the git room to gloat. He brought in the guitar case and plopped it on the side of the bed, flicking the locks and extracting the instrument. Immediately her eyes were held in thrall of the familiar relic, but he flipped its front side towards himself as if to shield it from her view.

“Tell me why you came in here and I’ll let you have this.” He said, his face impassive at her popped jaw. The audacity! Her cheeks puffed as she crossed her arms, pride still strong as ever.

“What does it matter? I guess I just needed…”

He waited. “Needed what Hermione? I can’t read every thought you have.”

She sighed. “…to feel...safe…” she answered in small voice that he almost hadn’t heard.

He came around the bed and sat in front of her like he’d done before. Still shirtless, the grey joggers accentuating his….ah….form….guitar in hand.

“My eyes are up here.” He joked, motioning with his hand.

Her cheeks flamed. “I wasn’t staring-”

“Riiiight.”

“At you.” She continued. “I know that guitar anywhere. Dad really gave it you?”

He glanced down at the wooden structure. It had an abstract style painting of a rising/setting sun, blocky beams and a bright circle down in the bottom corner. When he asked the man about the paint job, Wendell had that faraway look in his eye that he’d attributed to him almost grasping onto a memory; he just didn’t know it then.

“You painted this.” He concluded.

She nodded, fingers grazing lightly over the orange orb. “I wanted to make it pretty.” Her eyes took on a shine with her confession. “I was five…”

Fifteen years. Fifteen years he kept that adorable act of artistic liberty to his beloved guitar only to give it away to a stranger he’d taken in. 

Draco wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

But then he met her eyes.

“Play me something?” she asked softly.

In that moment, he would’ve gotten on one knee and serenaded her in a traditional pureblood courting style. Not that she would even know. Looking at her, sitting there in his blue and white flannel button up, hair a tossed mess, lip tucked neatly between her teeth…He could not say no.

“Uh…what…what would you like?” he asked, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Play something you’re comfortable with. It doesn’t have to be impressive like Stairway To Heaven you know. I just want to hear it.”

Lucky for him, Wendell had given him an introduction into the music of his youth, and Led Zeppelin just so happened to be one of those bands, and that song in particular. Hearing it for the first time, it was mind-opening. He never knew muggles could attain such artistic prowess, were capable of such lyrical composition, and the mastery of their instruments. And how there was a clear distinction between the generations’ within the genre. How he’d gone his whole life not knowing about even this one aspect of the muggle world just astounded him. There was literally a whole world out there for him to discover, and music was the gateway.

“Give me a min.” he said, racking his mind for muggle songs he knew well enough to play on his own. He’d only taken up playing in the pubs just a couple months prior and was thankful for Cody and Liam joining him as he didn’t feel so vulnerable when it came to him singing. He was aware he had a voice; it was just long out of practice. But in a dimly lit pub it didn’t matter if you were a disgraced pureblood wizard or drunken muggle bolstered by friends and liquid courage, music was universal.

But singing a song to the girl you bullied for six straight years in school?

Oh he had plenty in mind, some of which were of his own creation-not that he’d ever let those be seen by the light of day-and perhaps…well perhaps he could express something he couldn’t verbalize.

“Are you familiar with Oasis?” he asked her, moving his hands into position and testing the strings. The smile she aimed at him was answer enough. He chuckled nervously and fiddled with it a bit, summoning up some vestige of courage. “Alright…well, don’t laugh.” He warned her.

“I promise.” She replied, holding up a hand and placing it over her heart.

He cleared his throat and shifted his legs again, all too aware that she was now watching every move he made. Well, he certainly had her attention didn’t he? But those bright brown eyes could be judgmental and just as cruel.

He pushed the thoughts aside and began strumming.

“Today is gonna be the day  
That they're gonna throw it back to you  
By now you should've somehow  
Realized what you gotta do  
I don't believe that anybody  
Feels the way I do about you now”

Oh how he wish he had the backup violins…

“Backbeat, the word is on the street  
That the fire in your heart is out  
I'm sure you've heard it all before  
But you never really had a doubt  
I don't believe that anybody  
Feels the way I do about you now”

And Merlin wasn’t that the truth…

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding  
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding  
There are many things that I  
Would like to say to you but I don't know how  
Because maybe  
You're gonna be the one that saves me  
And after all  
You're my wonderwall”

He kept his eyes glued to his hand, making sure he hit the right notes. If he broke his concentration to see her face he’d lose his nerve to continue.

“Today was gonna be the day  
But they'll never throw it back to you  
By now you should've somehow  
Realized what you're not to do  
I don't believe that anybody  
Feels the way I do about you now”

Was it too on the mark? She was smart enough to read between the lines.

“And all the roads that lead you there were winding  
And all the lights that light the way are blinding  
There are many things that I  
Would like to say to you but I don't know how  
I said maybe  
You're gonna be the one that saves me  
And after all  
You're my wonderwall”

Then she surprised him by coming in with background lyrics in the underbeat.

“I said maybe (I said maybe)”  
His fingers slipped on the chord, hitting a wrong note at the sound of her voice joining his.  
“You're gonna be the one that saves me  
And after allllllllllllll  
You're my wonderwall  
I said maybe (I said maybe)  
You're gonna be the one that saves me (saves me)  
You're gonna be the one that saves me (that saves me)  
You're gonna be the one that saves me (that saves me)”

Her fingers danced out to invisible piano keys in the melody as he finished the last of the notes on the strings until they met their end.

Again, musically matched.

“Not bad Malfoy.” She said with the audacity to smirk at him and turned the tips of his ears red. “You ever play that one at the pub?”

He turned his head and coughed. “N-no…not that one. At least not yet.”

A little laugh escaped her before she could contain it. He whipped his head back towards her, bringing a hand up and pointing it at her. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not.” She flattened her palms at him. “I’m not laughing at you. But…just look at us…look around…would you ever imagine us ever being like this?” She motioned in between them. “Feels like a dream.”

More than a dream, he thought. I’ve had this dream. Now it’s here.

He set the guitar aside and crawled up to her like he had done before, startling her back ramrod straight and hands up in surprise, giving him the opportunity to rest his head in her lap as he rolled onto his back. “Ah, there we go….now I think this feels more like a dream, don’t you?”

“Uhhh….”

“Come on now, don’t tell me Hammy is the only one allowed to be adored around here?” he teased in a snooty tone, flicking imaginary lint off his grey joggers. He brought one knee up and rested his hand on his thigh. “I told you I’m not going anywhere, and this is an excellent way to make sure you stay in bed.”

“I’m not sick.” She pouted, pushing on his shoulders, hair draping over him like a canopy. “And you weigh a ton. How would you like if I just threw myself on top of you?”

He grinned wickedly. “You’ve already done that. And you know what reaction it created.”

She gasped in horror of being reminded of her faux pas after their tickle fight and grabbed a pillow, smashing it into his face. “You prat!” His laughter was merely muffled but not drowned out completely by the attempted suffocation. After a moment the pillow was shoved aside and a hand shot up into her hair, pulling her face to a hair’s breath away from his own.

“Such a violent little thing…” he whispered in a mocking little tone, as his other hand swept away the curtain of hair that otherwise would’ve blocked the view of her face. 

“Only when it comes to you.” She snarked back, her hands on either side of his face. “There’s something to be said about invoking the most primal urge to punch one’s face in.”

“Count yourself a member of a very elite club, for you’re the only one in it.”

She smiled with pride. “I knocked you flat on your arse Draco.” she preened, holding his jaw, brushing her thumbs along the apples of his cheeks. “I took down the high and mighty Slytherin Prince with a single blow.”

Somehow her sense of triumph at his expense sent a thrill through him. That little girl who’d been so angry she took one strike and made him see stars, made him bleed, made him fall-had it not been for the help of his bumbling buffoons-and run for dear life now was oddly a fond memory to recall, and her smile all the more of a perk with it. He let her have it. She owned the moment now just as she owned it then.

“I’ve yet to extract my revenge…” he warned, pulling her closer to him. 

“You would dare hit a lady?”

“Who said you were a lady?”

She scoffed and gave one cheek a light slap.

“There you go again, proving my point. I’m gonna have tie those hands down if I want to save my face.”

“Means you have to let go of my hair first.” She countered.

Oh touché.

“And check.” She teased, having watched his mental debate that flashed in the blink of an eye.

Game on.

His hands flung open, releasing all her hair at once, which immediately fell against her face and temporarily blocked her view, causing her to release his face to sweep it all back when he flipped onto his side and reached out, taking both her wrists and bringing them together right in front of her. 

She uttered an unladylike word at having been caught so thoroughly and quickly, her eyes large with experiencing those famed Seeker reflexes in person. 

“Well, the lady doth protest.” He cheekily quipped.

She tried wriggling free but he held them firmly as he brought himself up to his knees in front of her. “Ugh, now what?” she growled at him.

“That is the question now isn’t it?” 

More hair fell into her face. She blew a strand only to have it return right back to its place. Smirking at her momentary discomfort he pressed both her hands together and held them secure within just the one of his, bringing his other up to wipe clear the wild tresses and meet her eyes.

“What to do with you…” he mused aloud, partially because he had no idea as well as a very clear idea of what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t call himself a reformed gentleman if he did. And her unwavering unflinching unyielding form was not helping matters as her stubbornness to outwait him was essentially forcing him to make a move.

“The great thing about revenge though….” He said, flicking his tongue out and running it along the top row of his teeth, “Is that there is no expiration date.”

He released her hands and pulled back, effectively exiting her personal space.

“You can’t extract revenge for something you deserved brought on by your own violation.” She insisted, flinging her hair back. “I told you I would never apologize for that.” A finger pointed up at him.

A finger he was sorely tempted to wrap his mouth around and hear her gasp, first in shock, then in pleasure.

“You’re lucky it just so happened to be AFTER my birthday that you did it, and there were only a couple weeks left of school. Otherwise I’d have plotted something quite devious in retaliation.”

She scrutinized his face for any tells. “Then why didn’t you when we returned after the summer?”

He leaned back on his hands, shoulders hunched and belly slouched as his elbows locked to keep him supported. “Have you forgotten what happened that summer?”

That incredulous tone told her he certainly hadn’t.

She contemplated her next words carefully. “If you wanted revenge for me punching you…then why did you warn us about the Death Eaters?”

He rolled his shoulders, popping his neck before slowly lifting his eyes up. “Simply put, if I’m going to extract revenge upon someone, I’m going to handle it personally. At that moment, I’d made a claim. You were mine and no one else was allowed to harm you. So I had to see you out….you’re welcome by the way.”

She all but froze. Only her eyes, fixated on their target, moved, and then only with several blinks in succession as she tried absorbing the bombshell confession. Why hadn’t he written THAT part in his diary? 

“And your revenge…?” she prompted, gears in her brain slow to chug back into motion.

He had the gall to laugh. “Do you have selective memory? How could you possibly forget all the articles I had Skeeter print up about you? I lied my arse off, coming up with whatever defamatory knowledge that was halfway believable with how you and Potter were that year. His little break up with the Weasel made it all the more convincing.”

She reeled in shock. So THAT’S why Skeeter fixated on her so intently that year. Because Malfoy wanted revenge for his broken nose yet couldn’t retaliate in the usual fashion on the grounds of propriety (a gentleman never strikes a woman and all that tosh but it’s perfectly acceptable to drag her name through the mud?) She held no remorse for imprisoning Skeeter and causing the woman to develop a case of claustrophobia, and made a point to give her the most vicious stink-eye whenever their paths crossed in public, reminding the woman that she knew her secret and at any time could reveal it to the wizarding world.

Reading his diary during the Fourth Year portion revealed a confused boy battling emotions he wasn’t familiar with, trying to one-up Harry in all things and having thoughts about a certain someone he shouldn’t think is even remotely attractive. One passage would be him chortling in glee over the latest article Skeeter printed, aimed at dragging her down a peg in social standing but in the next mention how different her smile looked after having her teeth readjusted and that he’d almost been busted by Pansy for staring a little too long. 

Never coming right out and saying he garnered affection or had gained his revenge for her punch, it would appear that he didn’t fully trust the privacy of his bedroom and desk drawer, protecting such thoughts from being discovered in his hand. Unlike her, who wrote down every detail of every thought, going so far as to list them in a particular order too. Almost like the way she notes in class. 

Her mind was already storing that bit of information for later, something she could possibly add to her recounting of the years, especially since it was from his point of view. He may not have had a perfect logic, but it was his and at the time, it compelled him to inadvertently save her life. Who knew what could’ve happened that night otherwise?

As if sensing a need to bring in a distraction from the path their conversation was going, Monica knocked and entered, holding a list in one hand, pen in the other. “Putting together a grocery list, as we have an impending birthday on our hands. You two want anything?”

“You don’t have to do anything, just in case we don’t get your memories back by then.” Hermione politely dismissed, trying to hide the discomfort the thought brought her.

Draco held an index finger up and cleared his throat like he was addressing a larger audience. “Forgive my language, but fuck that.”

Both Granger women tossed incredulous looks his way.

He continued.

“You’re getting a birthday party Hermione. Cake. Ice cream. Stupid cone hats. Presents. All of it.” He sternly met her eye and refused to budge. “You didn’t bust your arse a whole year to fall short a few days before the finish line. And if I have to drag you into a store myself, you’re going shopping and getting a new dress. No arguments.”

“I beg your bloody pardon?” Hermione shouted rather shrilly with Monica merely raising her brows at this exchange.

“You may, doesn’t mean you’ll receive it.” He replied slyly, turning to the matriarch. “I’ll take that.” He slipped the list smoothly from her hand before she could utter a protest. “I owe her a day out in town anyhow, so this is perfect.” 

And just like that, he was sliding off the side of his bed and flinging open his closet door, thumbing through her dismal selection of clothing before plucking something off the hanger and tossing it at her. “Get dressed princess, we’re off in five.”

Hermione bristled at the order, even more when her mother didn’t step in on her behalf to put him in his place. What a betrayal. Really mother? Letting that smarmy git give orders as if Snape had put him in charge of setting up partners in potions class. Never mind the fact that his commanding tone and directedness was a slight turn on, wondering if he took control like that in other matters…

Watching him as he selected his own regular clothing shouldn’t have been such an intriguing sight but it was and she couldn’t explain why. Perhaps because she’d never seen him in such an unfiltered light, him being the poster boy for picture perfect impeccable pristine poshness in his school uniform, tailored suits, and even his Quidditch kit. With sleep-ruffled hair and pair of snug boxers he was as stripped down as one could get without it being indecent, going back and forth with her mother on what to make for dinner as he stepped into his jeans and threw a shirt on over his head, mesmerized by the way his muscles shifted with each move.

Fingers snapping in front of her face brought her back down to earth, chagrined at being caught so obviously off guard so much that she didn’t even react when the clothes were tossed quite literally in her lap, sandals plopped on top for good measure. He tapped his wrist to indicate ‘time’s a-ticking’ before shutting the door after his and Monica’s departure.

What the hell just happened? she pondered, suddenly alone in a room screaming with silence. Shaking her head like an Etch-A-Sketch to fling loose the sand in her ears she finally got up and slipped on her khaki shorts and pulled her hair into a ponytail. After a moment she conceded to the thoughts that perhaps this is what she needed after all. For too long she’d been the one making the choices, the decisions, the plans and back-up plans, and the schedules. She was the conductor directing the orchestra, guiding the student body and prefects into a cohesive unit to make a harmonious melody.

Now for once, she could sit back and let someone else take the reins.

Let the control go.

Set responsibility on a shelf.

She needed this. What did Narcissa call it? “Acquisition Therapy?” 

A new outfit with a new attitude. Hermione Granger was going to start living her life on her terms. And the best part was that she’d make Draco Malfoy carry all her bags.  
……………………………..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say that art imitates life, and that life imitates art.  
> Weird how that happens, since my parents have taken in a 19yr old named Tommy and are helping him get on his feet after a bad break up with his GF and family disputes. He's like a little brother to me and in writing this, I kept picturing my parents and how they're literally doing the same thing I'm making the Granger/Wilkins do. My parents were always the source of inspiration for Hermione's parents, but not in every regard.


	21. Let's Go Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco might regret treating Hermione to a day out when he runs into a familiar face that knows him as Tom, and wonder who the pretty girl he’s with is…

After checking and double checking her extendable coin purse and counting out a few thousand dollars in muggle cash, she determined that she had plenty to cover whatever expenses Draco might incur on her behalf. And that for the first time in their lives, she had more money than him. It did not slip her notice that he’d gone back to his bedroom to retrieve his jar of collected tips although she said nothing. With the grocery list in hand, he promised to get what was written as well as a few extras as Monica handed over the credit card.

“You don’t have to-” she said, as he opened his mouth to immediately protest when she continued. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

He blinked. “You’re not arguing with me on this?” He waved a hand in front of her face as if she were in a trance. “Something must’ve been in that orange juice, you’re not being combative or opinionated.” 

She rolled her eyes and slung her knapsack over her shoulder when he stopped her. “Hold on.” He said, palm outwards. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“Your wand.” He answered like a parent saying the one thing their child should not be bringing with them to the store.

Hooking a thumb towards her back, she indicated it was safe within the contents of the pack. He crossed his arms and shook his head, quite dignified in a father-like way. Which was probably the oddest thought about him that had crossed her mind yet.

“It stays.” He flatly stated, no room for debate. Pretty sure invoking the voice of his demanding father. She glared back at him. “Don’t give me that look princess, if I can manage living here without magic for a year then you can forgo the wand. Given your track record, I’d say you bringing it increases the chances of danger.”

She absolutely hated just how right he was-given her track record-and how honestly it was absurd of her to feel the need to bring it with her. They’re going to the grocer for Christ sake, not like they’re going to be battling dragons and trolls in order to do so. But, after last night, she couldn’t ignore how safe it made her feel just to have it nearby.  
A hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her thoughts before she could spiral. He was sliding the knapsack’s shoulder strap off her arm. “You don’t need it Hermione.” He said softly, soothing, like a lullaby. “I know you think you do, but you’re going to be around muggles. You can’t expose yourself and risk the Aurors just because you mistook a car backfiring for Apparation and fired a shot.”

Her mouth parted to refute but realized he was hitting a nail all too firmly on the head. She was jumpy, cautious, paranoid….whatever you want to call it. War had turned her into someone who shot first and then asked questions. Without a fight, she let him remove the knapsack off her person and set it on a coat hook by the door. The moment it was off though, she felt exposed. His hand slid across her back, comforting and warm.

“Trust me; you’ll be safe without it.” He said low into her ear. “Today no magic. You’re just Hermione Granger, regular Brit on holiday in the Land Down Under.”

The moment those words passed his lips she realized it. 

She had no expectations in the muggle world. She wasn’t the Gryffindor Princess, Golden Girl, Brains of the Golden Trio, Brightest Witch of her Age, recipient of an Order of Merlin, War Heroine. 

She was just normal looking, messy-haired, already sweating-because-God-why-is-it-so-bloody-hot-this-early young woman about ready to turn twenty, on the arm of her former classroom bully in some strange alliance, dancing around some kind of possible mutual attraction in a clearly not-date day out on the town.

Yeah, totally nothing to worry about.

…………………………

Draco’s driving terrified her.

She had a death grip on the handle above her head and the other pressed against the dash as he sped through the rural countryside with the same reckless speed attributed to his broom flying and curled herself into a ball within the seat, screaming at him to slow down. The more she did the more he laughed and thus created and endless cycle of hell until she let go of the dash and started flailing at him, slapping his arm until it was red. 

“If you want to scream, then at least do it to some tunes.” He admonished, turning the radio volume up higher.

“Keep both bloody hands on the wheel for cripes’ sake!”

“Oh like this?” he mocked, lifting both hands from the wheel, steering the contraption with his knee. She reached a new octave that could’ve been mistaken for an eagle’s cry.

“Youwankingidiotsonofabitchroadhazard!” 

He laughed even harder, putting his hands back on the wheel and easily sliding a palm across as the wheel turned, and thus the truck and she swore her heart was ready to leap out of her damn mouth. It was nothing but a game to him, having the time of his life, experiencing the only thing that came even close to flying. Out in the open expanse of farmland and rich countryside homes no one gave a damn about speed limits or lanes, just as long as you straightened up when another vehicle approached. It was an excellent way to blow off some steam as well.

Truly, she was just overreacting in typical Gryffindor fashion. Boisterous and dramatic to a fault. Couldn’t even appreciate the classic 80’s hit by Bon Jovi either as he screamed along to the song, bobbing his head and making the dirt fly. When signs of approaching civilization became prevalent he slowed to a more acceptable speed and she could breathe normally again.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?”

He wheezed. “No, not really. But you have the most amusing expressions when you are.” And those screams were at least easier for his ear to take than the ones that rattled in his nightmares. She punched his upper arm and he winced but still kept that ridiculous grin plastered on his face. “I’ll make it up to ya.” He promised.

They were standing in front of an ice cream parlor.

She turned and looked him up and down like he might have been a figment of her imagination. “Really? What are we, twelve?”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you don’t like ice cream. I saw you plenty of times sneaking out of Honeydukes, thinking someone might actually rat you out to your dentist parents.   
Ha!” he smirked delightfully, watching her cheeks puff like a chipmunk.

“You have the biggest sweet tooth of any human I know. It’s amazing you managed to not develop any cavities in your time here.”

He took that statement with pride, chest swelling a touch. “Your parents gave me glowing accolades. In fact I think your mom developed a crush just on my smile.”

“You do have a nice smile.” She mumbled as he opened the door and swept himself into a bow as she passed by. “Fine, I will let you apologize with ice cream you overgrown ferret.”

He snuck up behind her and draped his arm over her shoulder. “Careful with the nicknames love, someone might get the impression you like me.”

She rolled her eyes as he ordered their vanilla cones-just something to nibble on as they walked about-and had to resist the urge to mash the soft serve right into his face. He held the door open when they left and she wondered if he was going to do that with every single place they went to as they took to the sidewalk.

“So, some things you should know.” He said straightforwardly. “Firstly, out here, my name is Tom. You’ve got to remember that. It’s even on my little ID card thing. You can get away with calling me Drake-I tell everyone it’s my middle name-but not everyone does so some people might still look at you strange for a moment.”

She nodded, dragging her tongue across the cool creamy confection. Actually, ice cream was kinda the perfect little mood-lifter after that harrowing ride. Not that she’d tell him that.

“Secondly, everyone believes I’m staying with my aunt and uncle, aka the Wilkins.”

She stopped short. “So what are we going to tell people when they ask about me? There’s no way I’m calling you my cousin.”

He blew out a relieved breath. “I was hoping you’d come up with something clever. I’ve had to make up enough cover stories.”

“Fair deal. We could just say I’m visiting relatives too. It would be best to use as much truth as possible. We do know each other from school. And we could say our families know each other, hence why I’m staying at your place.”

“I’ve rarely spoken about my family, let alone anything real about myself. Most people are willing to fill in the blanks themselves if I leave the answers vague enough. All that Cody and Liam know of me is that I’m basically in witness protection for testifying, given a new name and place. I haven’t told them my real name. Only your parents know that.”

“It would be best if you didn’t. The less that know the better.” She contemplated the situation he was in. These little white lies had been established a year ago, people believed who he said he was and what little he let himself be known for. It was prudent to play along.

“I just can’t call you Tom…” she sighed, the name rang bitterly in her memory.

“I know it’ll take some getting used to-”

“That’s not it.” She interrupted, her voice getting a little serious. “It’s just that… well that was Voldemort’s true name.”

“WHAT?” he exclaimed, rather loudly, turning heads. He glanced over apologetically at the people and waved nervously, letting them know he didn’t mean it and would keep it down.

“Jesus Draco…” she seethed in a heated whisper, finger in her ear. “Take it down a notch. Are you telling me you never knew the real Vol-”

“Don’t say his name.”

Her brows furrowed. “He’s dead. And this time he can’t come back. His name is harmless. And Voldemort,” she sneered, watching him wince, “Was a half-blood orphan born of a muggle man drugged with a love potion and the witch who died shortly after his birth, named Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

A little color had drained from his face. The ice cream melting at a quicker rate, just held out in his hand in the sun. “Are you telling me…. And this is true?”

She nodded, afraid to say more and upset him further.

“Sorry…. It was evident in the first Horcrux, the journal. He revealed his identity to Harry then, but it took a few more years before we’d found out the rest.”

“That was…. That was second year…” he trailed off, looking at his hand becoming a sticky mess. “Damn it.”

“Eat the rest before it wastes away.” she ordered, pushing it towards him. Vanilla ran in rivets down the cone and spilled over onto her hand. Before she could pull it back, Draco took hold of her wrist and dragged his tongue across the white trail. She gasped and tried to pull it back, but he held on, determined to get every last bit. “Draco….stahppp.” she stuttered, aware there were other people around.

“Make me.” he dared, flashing his eyes at her. 

“There are people!” she hissed.

“And dogs, and birds, and probably a snake too. So what? I’m certainly not your cousin.” He teased, tongue flicking between her fingers. A little tug and she all but fell into his personal space. “Just so we’re clear on that.”

“Stop. Being. Weird.” She growled.

“But, it’s such fun.” He whined playfully. “Say the magic word.”

“I am going to kill you.” She swore between tightly pressed teeth.

He released her. 

Their cones were more a melted mess than anything, dribbling the dairy treat into little sticky droplet puddles at their feet but they managed to salvage a few more licks before the cones were all but falling apart and was thus tossed into the nearest bin with her grumbling that he’d wasted money and food by doing that. But he had his fun, as well as set a clear boundary that couldn’t be crossed if questioned about their relationship with another. Certainly not related in any way.

They detoured into the next closest shop and headed towards the restrooms to wash their hands, him telling her not to venture anywhere if she finished first. In the privacy the tiny closet-like space provided, she washed her hands and racked her brain for a reason as to why he would do that. In public. He sure had figured out a new way to be annoying, that was for certain. Yesterday she’d shown a terrible weakness, not having much experience with intimate, flirty touches and now he was making the most of it.   
Of course. Typical Slytherin. She’d just have to not be so reactive the next time he did something like that. Beat him at his own game.

When they reunited she thought they were going to head to grocer but he detoured and took her into an obvious girl themed boutique.

“Why are we here?”

“Because I meant what I said darling, you’re getting yourself a new outfit.”

She glowered at him. Dress shopping was not her forte. She had no idea what the hell the difference was between a sweetheart neckline and a babydoll. Her experience trying to select a dress for Yule ball almost had her backing out of the thing altogether, feeling pressured by pushy sales reps only wanting to make their quota on their inventory and blasting her with so many questions. How was she supposed to know her measurements? And her bust size? What cut? What length? What material? It almost had her in tears if not help had arrived in the form of Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Susan Bones. Between the three of them acting in formation; one facing off with the saleswoman, one selecting shoes, and the other finding matching accessories. 

“I hate clothes shopping.” She grumbled.

“I can tell.” He snarked back. When she didn’t immediately jump at him for insulting her tastes he pulled back on the verbal attack a bit. “You were always more focused on practicality rather than fashion.”

She could feel heat flush in her cheeks as she followed him to the front door-which he opened. How often did he actually look at her and take in the details of her clothing? Had he written something she’d overlooked in his journal? The thought was pushed aside when she entered the girlish domain, bright colors and popular music assaulting her senses as the door chimed their arrival. A perky smiling sales girl their age gave her a greeting before blowing a bubble of gum.

“Let me know if ya need help.” She said, heading turning back down to the Delia*s catalogue in her hands. “Having a back-to-school sale til the end of the month, most everything’s 25% off.”

Draco nudged her with his elbow. “Hey, one of the perks of having a September birthday.”

She scoffed. “Lot of good that did when we attended a school with a strict uniform code.”

“Well now you can tell all those past years to fuck off because you’re wearing what you want now.”

Hands on her hips, she glared daggers at him as he slid hanger after hanger across the rack, the metal sliding sound grating on her ears. “Oh really? I get to wear what I want? Yet you drag me in here?”

Continuing to browse through the clothes he nodded. “Yep.” He answered, popping the P. “Because you’re still sitting in your box of comfortable routine, safe and rule abiding… Stagnant.” Her mouth opened in indignation at the final word, but he continued. “But you’re no longer bound by that routine; you no longer need to stay in that box. Now, I’m not saying you need to buy a whole new wardrobe at once. You just need to start with one new outfit for your birthday. Consider it like shedding an old skin.”

Shedding an old skin. How Slytherin a euphemism. 

However though, he had a point.

But she was not keen on the selection of short length dresses he was flinging through.

…………………………..

Lexi Campbell was considered an odd girl, even by Aussie standards.

She stuck out like a sore thumb in a crowd of bronze-skinned happy blondes with her dyed hair and dark clothes. Not what one would think of when picturing their ideal Australian lass, as she didn’t surf, didn’t wrestle alligators, and most certainly didn’t wear khakis.

She was introverted enough to enjoy the space most people gave her, but extroverted enough to attend open-mic night at the Drunk Dingo for entertainment-and to hand out business cards to her tattoo parlor to drunk tourists. A souvenir to definitely remember. Wasn’t her fault that inebriated people often were sparked with inspiration and had the cash to follow through with it. So far, there’d been no complaints about her work.

Her eyes were always on the lookout for something new, something edgy, something trendsetting. Whether it was a color, a theme, the latest song (because song lyrics were a big one), a character from a film or even a quote from great literature, she was always observing. Observing people, animals, the weather, or the politics of the world. 

So when a new face appeared at the bar with a hand-painted guitar and a melancholic voice to enthrall the crowd, she noticed his left arm immediately. Against his white skin it stood out even more, with the darkest ink she’d ever seen. It drew her in, but she wasn’t the only one taken with the blond stranger who sang such beautifully sad songs. While those girls fawned over his brooding presence, his reserved quietness, his features, and yes even that hair, all she wanted was a closer inspection of that tat.

But the floozies came on too strong and made him uncomfortable. He politely declined with far more grace than she’d ever seen a bloke do, somehow avoiding breaking hearts and earning a slap to the face. Now that was a boy raised with manners. And if he was raised with such manners, then why did he sport such a dark….mark?

Skulls and snakes went to together like vegemite and beer. But something was different about this one and she couldn’t say why, not that she could get close enough to him without making it obvious that she wanted to gaze at his ink and not his face. Honestly, he was just a kid and she was a college grad, and the way he spoke at times grated on her nerves, like he was better than others. Pretentious little prick. And he wasn’t afraid to tell someone off either. He’d used some rather colorful explicatives and insulting terms that she was pretty sure had to be just a British thing or plain old made up.

After all, she’d never heard the word “Muggle” before in her whole life.

Then Liam and Cody caught wind of the kid and immediately tagged along with his performances. Honestly, they weren’t bad. She at least had to give Cody props there even if he was a pussy hound hell-bent on fucking everything within a hundred miles. She ought to know. But this “Tom” fellow kept to himself. She’d seen him accompany Mr. Wilkins a few times, referring to the old man as his uncle-not her business if he wasn’t-and often lending a helping hand around the place, especially after one particularly nasty brawl that left a broken chair and several shattered glasses in its wake.

So, he couldn’t be all bad.

Especially if he was licking ice cream off the hand of some girl she’d never seen, smiling like an idiot. The scene was so surreal that it took her curiosity by the reins and tugged her along in their shadow, surprised to hear her complain about going into a women’s clothing store. 

“I hate clothes shopping.” She grumbled.

“I can tell. You were always more focused on practicality rather than fashion.”

Hmmm, well they certainly have a history. They seemed somewhat close. Was this the girl many speculated broke his heart? If so, they looked to be on friendly terms. Well, it really wasn’t her business, although it just a little too interesting to leave alone. He’d never so much as ogled one of the cleavage bearing tourists or gave any inclination of interest to some of the single local girls here, and now he was insisting on taking one shopping…

When the little brunette stepped inside the dressing booth, she slid up by him.

“Hello Tom.”

He jumped back like she’d electrocuted him. She had that affect.

“The hell Lexi-you creepy arsed vampire-what are you doing here?”

She raised a pierced eyebrow. “This is a woman’s clothing store. I assure you, I have the hardware required…though now I’m beginning to question yours.”

A twitch developed near one of his grey eyes. She had to admit, with the platinum blond hair they were a perfectly complimentary set. “Oh you’d love to see what hardware I have.”

“Tch, don’t flatter yourself Blondie. Who’s the doll?” she inquired with a jut of her chin towards the changing room. “Pretty cute, though she’s probably out of your league.”

“She’s none of your business Harpy. Don’t you have some school children to scare or something?” he waggled his fingers in a dismissive wave.

“It’s Sunday, unless you except me to haunt a church-oh wait, you do-but even then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint since even little kids can tell that vampires wouldn’t be hunting during daylight hours.”

She loved getting under his skin when he got all uppity like this. Something told her he wasn’t used to being talked down to in such a way. He simply couldn’t walk away, always wanting the last word. He was about to sprout off another one when a soft voice called out from behind the door and it cracked open.

“Draco? Oh!” a pair of bright brown eyes widened upon the sight of her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Oh what a darling.

Tom aka Draco immediately turned to her. “Something wrong?”

The girl looked flustered. “I can’t do the zipper.”

“Oh…I…well…” he floundered, making Lexi shake her head. He was a complete idiot to miss that particular invitation.

“I can help.” She said, stepping forward. “Lexi Campbell.” She held out her hand. From the thin opening a little hand snuck out, fingernails glinting with gold. Snazzy. 

“Hermione Granger, pleasure.” Ah, another Brit she deduced, shooting the petulant blond a look. 

“You mind backing up Pretty Boy?”

He squared his shoulders and glared daggers at her. 

Too late lover boy, you missed your window. She slipped in and shut the door behind her, trying not to take up any more space in the tiny compartment. The brunette turned her back to her, facing the mirror, and swept her impressively curly hair aside. “I appreciate this. I wasn’t sure if I could ask him.”

Given the ditz behind the counter was paying more attention to her own nails, Lexi wouldn’t be surprised if she was completely oblivious if Tom decided he wanted to sneak into the dressing room. “Better me than the girl who does work here, she’s half a brain on a good day.”

Hermione snickered as she pulled the zip up her back. 

“So, is it Tom or is it Draco?” she asked right out the gate.

“Oh…” there was a small hesitation. “Well I mean, he is Tom right? I’ve just always called him that.”

Uh huh. Not convincing sweetheart but that’s fine.

“So you know him then?” she helped toss the girl’s mane in a sexy manner, leaving her to ogle herself in the reflection.

“Yeah, from school.”

Ah, so they do have a history.

“You on holiday? Special occasion coming up?” Why the dress?

“My birthday is in a week.” She replied.

“Rock on.” She quipped, catching a glimpse of some slash marks on her left arm as she twisted and turned. “You should swing by my parlor; I’ll give you a discount.” And just like that, a business card was passing from her painted black finger nails into her gold tipped ones. “Come on, let’s let lover boy have a look-see before he blows a gasket.”

“Oh uh…” the girl waffled as she pulled on her right arm, leading her out of the dressing room. Leaned against a clothing rack, arms crossed and eyes closed, head tossed back as if he were just listening to the radio, their arrival brought him out of his little reprieve and his jaw popped open.

“Uh… what do you think?” the shy little thing asked, apparently his reaction not being enough of an answer. Clearly she was not used to wearing such things, just as him seeing her in it was an evident response.

“Yes.” He answered.

Oh how articulate.

Lexi brought her hands up and took some of the mass of curls and began to pile it on top of her head. “Maybe with a little updo, show off that neck. Sport a sexy black choker and a little glitter body spray. Hmmm? Well Tom?” she asked, watching as his eyes darkened with obvious images running through his mind. 

All he could do was nod.

“Now we need to find some ass kicking boots to go with this little number. Come with me.” she declared, pulling the girl along to the shoe section. Hermione, bless her, didn’t argue. In fact she mentioned that she lacked a good pair of boots, only having a pair of sneakers and sandals with her select wardrobe. After telling Lexi she had more than enough money to spend, the Goth was willing to push not only a sexy pair to accompany the sizzling dress but a practical pair for more daily use.

She told her of her first day fumble and how a harmless barefoot stroll led to an embarrassing medical emergency, Lexi nodding the whole time that yes she had been an idiot and yes that she needed boots. It didn’t escape her notice that Tom paced around the store like a caged tiger now that someone else had his little lady’s attention. He’d selected some chokers just to stay busy, some stretchy, some velvet, some with dangling charms.

Back inside the changing booth, Lexi undid her zipper and caught the barest hint of the scar running along her right side. Saying nothing about it, she handed Hermione the flannel shirt she swore she’d seen Tom wear once or twice and politely adverted her eyes as the younger redressed. “You know, I’m not one to pry…but that scar…on your arm…that word…”

“Oh…that.” She said, placing her hand over it. “It happened a couple years ago. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“So, that wasn’t… self-inflicted?”

“God no.” the girl answered, almost affronted. “No…this was… Well, I was targeted to say the least.” She finished folding back the sleeves into place. “Some people thought they could break me with that word, by doing that. But they didn’t.”

“Fuck yeah.” She said, bringing a fist up in salute to the badassery. “But if you like… I could cover it, or add something to it. Turn pain into beauty.”

Hermione mulled it over, looking at the letters, what they spelled, and what words Draco had lovingly whispered over them.

“Maybe…”

……………………………..

The longer she talked with the lovely gothic girl the more she decided she liked her. And although all-black was not her forte, she had to admit the woman had an eye for colors and textures, and understood she couldn’t push her fashion aesthetic onto everyone, but a few hints of it made their way into her newly selected wardrobe. With each new article of clothing draped over her arm-which quickly found its way onto Draco’s arm-she caught the telltale signs of him doing math in his head.

“Don’t worry; I have enough to cover it. I have an account back home.”

No more needed to be elaborated on that, there was only one wizarding bank for wizarding Great Britain after all. But a glimpse of disappointment flashed across his features for a second as he spun on his heel to the register. Did the mention of “back home” bring up some unpleasant memories? Throughout their conversing she couldn’t help but mentally “Sort” her and decided that this confident and strange girl would be either suited for Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Lexi Campbell could easily spar with Draco in one breath and then turn into a well-bred lady the next when speaking with her and she loved it.

After she’d done her damage and all the bags were loaded onto Draco’s arms, Lexi had written her home and cellular phone numbers on the back of her business card. Hermione was impressed that she had a mobile for she hadn’t yet met anyone with one and contemplated the actual necessity of one when dealing with modes of communication in the wizarding world.

But one simply did not fly owls or Floo in Australia.

So perhaps a mobile wasn’t that barmy an idea after all. 

Getting to talk with a girl, going shopping and being absolutely free of the expectations she had was indeed liberating, and she found herself getting lost in the rabbit holes of their conversations, Draco trailing behind, the amount of bags accumulating as Lexi helped her pick out a wide brim summer hat so she wouldn’t burn, stylish sunglasses, several purses (because girl, you must match your outfit) and even a swimsuit.

A one piece, but still, it was swimwear.

Draco tried making himself look anything other than the baggage lackey when Lexi dragged her over to the swimsuits and told her she absolutely couldn’t live in the Land Down Under without one. She huffed and hesitated, looking over at Draco for backup but for once he was of a like mind with the older girl. So she relented but refused to try any on, grabbing a simple dark blue standard style onesie and slapping it on the counter.

“Not that I’m for one flaunting my body or trying to tan, but is there a reason you aren’t even remotely interested in a halter style top? I mean even I can tell you’re pretty fit.”  
Hermione smiled sadly at the compliment. “Thanks, but… Well, I have a scar…” she answered softly. 

“So?” Lexi replied sharply, arms crossed. “A woman’s worth shouldn’t be measured in her appearance. And someone as bright as you ought to already know that.”

Draco could’ve dropped the bags and hugged the macabre mistress and forgiven all the times she creeped him out for her blunt delivery of that statement. If a person she’d just met that very afternoon could say that to her then perhaps she might actually believe it. And he saw just how the boldly delivered words affected her as she was stunned into silence.

So Lexi continued. “You wouldn’t believe the wicked scars I’ve seen, and the stories attached to them. Stories of survival. Everyone’s got one, some more than others. And people of all walks of life will come to me and want something to either cover it or turn it into something they can look proudly on. So don’t let some freak accident life or death situation prevent you from living your life. Don’t let a scar tell you that you aren’t pretty.”

“Oh… wow…” Hermione breathed, eyes wide and heart full of emotion. “Wish someone had said that to me a year ago…” Her hand fumbled for the money pouch and slid a few bills over to the cashier. Against her better judgment, her eyes sought out Draco, who had turned just in a way where she couldn’t see his face. Probably all for the better, this was certainly not the time or place to visit the memories of those scars.

“Shouldn’t have to take someone you’ve only known an hour to say so…” the Goth replied, also setting her little purchase on the counter. “But maybe, it’s what you needed.” She pulled back the sleeve of her arm, showing her own scars. “Stupid desperate act of a teenager crying out for help. So you see, they’re everywhere, on everyone.”

……………………………..

It wasn’t the shopping trip he expected, but he couldn’t have imagined it going any better than it did in thanks to that strange girl and her wise words. The more he thought about it the more he figured she would’ve made an excellent Ravenclaw, maybe even a decent Slytherin. He noticed immediately how differently she spoke to Hermione than she did with him, like she knew how to connect to their distinct personalities and be the exact one they could converse with. She was…nice. And it was weird. He’d always thought she was one of those “Witches” who with a wiggle of her nose or snap of her fingers would tie someone’s shoelaces together or cause a guy’s bollocks to shrink but he couldn’t ever recall her being outright vicious-except with her tongue. He did know there was bad blood between her and Cody and that his scar was a gift from her but seeing how the fella chased anything in a skirt he wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

“Well kiddies, it’s been fun.” She let out an exasperated sigh once they left the latest of the clothing outlets she’d dragged them into. “I’ve taken up enough time of your date so I’ll be on my way.” She slid on her dark shades and flashed them a wicked grin.

“It’s not a date.” They replied in unison, immediately stiffening.

She threw her head back and laughed, something between a birdsong warble and a legitimate cackle. “Course not. Tom just takes any pretty girl he went to school with shopping after licking ice cream off her hand.”

Hermione’s mouth gaped open, then she whirled on him with a backhand to his arm. “I told you there were people around!” she hissed.

He couldn’t help but pull his lips inward, trying not to laugh at her indignation while maintaining eye contact with Lexi. 

Oh how very interesting, she mused.

“Right then, my mistake.” She shrugged it off nonchalantly. “Anyway, ring me up if you ever decide on a tat, and I’ll give you a little first time customer, birthday special discount. Plus, if you need help glamming up for your big day.”

She then directed herself at Draco. “Bringing her to the Dingo? Won’t have to worry bout buying drinks, although you might have to shake Cody off her leg.”

Hermione let out a nervous laugh as Draco bristled at the statement. “Maybe.” He said tightly. Considering the outfit she’d just bought he wasn’t all too sure if being in a room full of drunks was the best option.

“But you’ve a regular gig on weekends don’t you?” she prompted. “If you’re worried about her getting pawed at then I’ll stick around, use my dazzling charm to keep them at bay.”

“Oh that’d be great.” Hermione agreed all too quickly before he could counter. “I’d feel foolish enough as it is just wearing all this but being around another girl would make me feel better.”

“Done deal.” Lexi stated. “You call me later so I have your number and we’ll arrange a meet.” She flicked her shades down to hold Draco’s stern gaze. “Sound good, Draco?”

“Don’t call me that.” He practically growled.

She smirked. “Why not? It suits you. Tootles!” she waggled her fingers in her departure, gleaming white grin set in wide maroon tinted lips, leaving them standing in the shade of an awning as her dark form grew smaller and smaller into the distance.

“I like her.” Hermione chirped.

“You would.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“She kinda reminds me of Luna-”

“Pansy.” He said at the same time. They both turned and shared a look before he broke it off. “Come on; let’s get on with the grocery shopping.”

………………………………

Selecting food was a far more comfortable and non-combative ordeal, following the list. They both knew the preferences of the Wilkins/Grangers, she being their daughter and he being their ward for the past year. But Draco had the slight advantage of knowing the layout of the store and having the faster reflexes in reaching for the produce, smirking at her huffed face as he held the kiwi up like the Golden Snitch. “Too slow Short Stuff.”

She scoffed at his two-in-one insult moved on to select a little basket of strawberries, selecting one and biting into it before plopping it into their cart. He shot her a disapproving glare with an arched brow and crossed arms.

“What?”

“Really?”

“I’m hungry.” She stated flatly. “If someone hadn’t been such a prat earlier I might’ve been able to fully enjoy that cone he promised as way to apologize for driving like a bat outta Hell. So now I think he owes me a burger…”

“Oh does he?” he smirked back in a playful tone, loving how demanding and matter-of-factly she presented her case. Never minding that she was absolutely correct but a burger sounded fucking fabulous right about now. “I might be able to convince him.”

“Snap to it then.” She sassed back with a flirty little wink that had him letting out a nervous chuckle as he turned his attention back to the list in hand and pushing the cart ahead.

Keep your cool Malfoy; this is just friendly banter….

Hermione wasn’t surprised to see cake mix and frosting on the list, the only time her parents every really indulged on sweets was for holidays and special occasions-which usually resulted in a check-up appointment shortly after-but nothing specific was labeled…since they didn’t quite remember what her favorite flavor was. So when Draco found her in the baking goods aisle after backtracking to collect a loaf of bread, with her locked in an internal debate over the various flavors presented, he approached with caution.  
Holding two boxes, one Yellow cake mix in one hand and White in the other, she exhaled a deep breath when he came to her side. “You must think I’m some emotional sap, getting weepy every other day over little insignificant things.”

“Not at all.” He replied. “What you did…that’s the most selfless thing I’ve ever heard of.” He leaned in close so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “Truly the most underappreciated sacrifice you made that year, and in the war in general. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but honestly, you’re the bravest person I know.”

Her back straightened at his confession, almost dropping the boxes. His hand reached down, selecting the yellow and carelessly tossing it into the cart. 

“Hey-” she protested, turning towards him. “What gives? It’s MY cake.”

“And you’re waffling over two flavors. At least pick the one that isn’t so plain.”

She scoffed. “I could buy this entire aisle’s worth of cake mix if I wanted.” She proclaimed, empty hand fisted firmly against her hip, the other one waved around to emphasize her point.

“Oooh, bragging about the size of your vault? You sound like a Malfoy.” He teased, flicking his tongue upwards as he smirked most devilishly.

The box of white cake mix was shoved back onto the shelf unceremoniously as she glared him a look worthy to cast the Avada itself.

Just remember, he’s only saying it to get a rise out of you. Don’t say anything back.

“Let’s go get that burger shall we?” he suggested, putting an end to the death glare and need he felt to pull her in for a hug.

……………………….

Ordering the food was one thing, paying for it was another.

Hermione wanted him to save his collected tip fund and offered, as she had plenty. He on the other hand was affronted by the accusation that he somehow couldn’t afford it and insisted it was the gentlemanly thing to do, as well as him owing for the wasted ice cream from earlier. The poor kid behind the counter looked on nervously as they both made their points with the argument becoming a little heated until someone behind them stated in quite the irked voice “Let the lady pay her own way will ya?” and succinctly put an end to the debacle.

So the order was re-rang up and they each paid for their own, Draco grumbling the entire time and snatching both their cups and taking them to the fountain, filling both with Sprite regardless of her preference as she collected napkins and selected their seats. He didn’t sit with her when he brought the cups over, only set hers in front of her and stormed back to the counter to haunt the area until their order was ready, leaving her to reconsider her independent streak and how she might have offended him.  
Fiddling with her napkin, it dawned on her that for someone like Malfoy, who’d been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and never had to count his pocket change, that being refused the offer to pay was an insult. Especially now that he had very little to his name and yet had wanted to cover the cost of her food as well as his own.   
When he arrived with the tray and sat down across from her she was dabbing her eyes with her napkin, gaze adverted to the side and aimed low.

There was tense silence.

“I’m sorry.” They both said, both voices low with shame.

He cleared his throat. “Old habits die hard…”

She started wrenching the napkin within her hands, afraid to meet his eyes. “I don’t know why I have to always prove myself, even with the little things. It’s just a fucking burger…”

He pushed the tray towards her. “It’s because of me Gra-Hermione-” he quickly amended. “I was a constant thorn pricking at you. It may just be a burger, but it’s the principle of the matter. Even if I had all my former wealth, you’d still insist wouldn’t you?”

Meekly, she reached out for the wrapped bundle, only to have her hand covered by his own. “We’ll get better at this…us being friends, but only if you actually allow me the chance to make it up to you.”

Her lip lifted in half a smile. “You mean, me letting you be the boss? Insisting I stay in bed and get new clothes and yellow cake mix?”

His thumb trailed over her hand. “Exactly. Isn’t that what friends do?”

She slipped her hand out from under his, taking her burger with her and finally unwrapping it. “I think you and I have different ideas of what it means to be friends, but when it comes down to it, sometimes a friend does need a swift kick to their arse and someone else taking control of the situation. But don’t let that get to your head; I doubt your body has any more room to house your ego.”

Dipping his fry into the ketchup he grinned. “Been thinking about my body much?”

She nearly choked on her bite, quickly grabbing her Sprite and chugging it in a horrible hacking mess. “Oh you are so insufferable!” she exclaimed as she dabbed napkins all over herself and the tabletop.

“Which is just another way to say I’m charming.” 

All she could respond with was rolled eyes and smaller bites until they finished their meal and returned to the truck. Seeing as they had precious cargo in the back, and that he’d done enough dare deviling the first go-around, he drove much calmer and legally on the return trip, giving her time to appreciate his newfound muggle skill and how easily he took to it. 

“You’re staring.” He chuckled.

“You look so natural doing that.” She commented in a voice laced with awe. The very idea of Draco Malfoy driving a muggle vehicle, among all the other many little things he’d done, like cooking and caring for animals, all of it was astounding. She couldn’t help but be caught up in the surrealness of it all.

He shifted in his seat, a little smirk on his face, letting her drink in the sight. He knew she was all but floored by his everyday normalcy when all she’d ever known of him was six years of being an elitist pureblood who never did a thing without magic. He knew he made it look easy but it hadn’t been without its struggles. The entirety of the previous year had been one humbling experience after the next with him wondering if he’d ever finally come out on top of something and salvage some of his pride. But he’d known there was nowhere else to go and no one else willing to lend him even the tiniest of helping hands, so he picked himself up and trudged through every labor and chore and lesson the Wilkins instilled in him. 

“Why thank you.” He purred with delight. “Although I can’t take all the credit, your old man has the patience of a saint and knows how to explain the mechanics to someone who didn’t know gear shift from gas pedal.” He let out a sigh. “He was quite reassuring; much like my father was with my first flying lesson.”

While Hermione was proud to hear the compliment about her father, who no doubt would’ve taught her to drive just like he taught her how to throw a punch, it caught her off guard to hear something kind about Lucius Malfoy. Even in her chats with Narcissa, the woman was very reserved about the life she had with him, noting that there was a stark difference in the man she married and the man he later became. She’d clung to the once happy memories that futile first year of loneliness, but gradually spoke less fondly of him over the summer until she announced her decision to officially divorce him and move on.

“Ah.” Was all she could think to say.

There was a heavy hesitation on his part before he spoke up again, and she knew it took every ounce of his courage to do so. “So uh, before coming here…did you ever hear anything about my parents?” he kept his eyes fixed forward on the road.

She gulped. Now was not the time to go into that conversation, not when she was about to break out the pensieve and help her parents see their life through her eyes as one last measure before resorting to that spell. But she couldn’t lie to him. Not about this. Not if they were going to be friends.

“Actually, Draco…I have heard plenty…Not much has changed with your father. He’s been filing for appeals and demanding retribution. He figures if he got out once he can do it again.”

Draco snorted. “Figures.”

She continued, knowing if she held her tongue now she might not say anything at all. And he deserved to hear something. Just not everything.

“Your mother is well, she’s reconnected with her sister Andromeda and has made many contributions to the Ministry, the Auror program, and also picking up on some campaign about freeing house elves some bright-eyed fifteen year old created a few years back, can you believe it?”

His serious brow crinkled as he tucked his bottom lip in behind his teeth and chuckled. “Yeah, that brazen fifteen year old sure was something wasn’t she?”

It seemed enough, for now. She hadn’t lied, she just didn’t include every single tidbit of information she had. Yet. There would be a proper place and time for that. Preferably with him not behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.

……………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone reading on my other works, you'll know that Peacock and the Otter was supposed to be updated next, but alas, I have not finished typing up the next chapter and it will be delayed due to my back injury.  
> This chapter was already pre-typed so I am going out of order and updating this story instead.  
> I've pinched my sciatic and it is a previous injury but it's never hurt this bad, I had to to go the ER.  
> I have an appointment set so I can see a specialist.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and keep your fingers crossed for a speedy recovery!


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